What Would You See?
by Ada Kensington
Summary: AN UPDATE? How strange! A series of short stories - (so far) featuring each main character - telling of their distressing, shocking and (occasionally) amusing, encounters with the Mirror of Erised. Chapter 11: It's a surprise. Find out for yourself!
1. Severus Snape

What Would You See…?

A series of short stories by Ada Kensington

Acutely aware of his own laboured breathing, Severus Snape heaved his half of the package over another banister for the Headmaster to drag it up, over, and round yet another bend of the endless, criss-crossing maze of stairwells that made up Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Severus used the brief pause to wipe a few beads of sweat from his brow and to get his breath back. They had been lugging this package from one end of the school to another… and another… and yet another. However, each time they stopped, the Headmaster would pause thoughtfully, survey the new surroundings and shake his head quickly. Each time, Severus would sigh, pointedly, and would get ready to lift his end of the mysterious package to yet another obscure corner of the school.

To Severus, said mysterious package was truly mysterious. It was – in his opinion – a positive enigma. When the Headmaster had sent for him, he had mistakenly believed that Dumbledore had wished to discuss recent…rumours. However, when he arrived, to his utter surprise, he was assigned to heavy labour. 

__

Heavy labour, that is, in heaving this bloody heavy parcel to the four corners of the school and back…

That had suited Severus. Heavy labour was infinitely less painful that discussing the current whereabouts of Lord Voldemort.

Upon reaching what felt like the hundredth corridor and the thousandth door, the Headmaster stopped so shortly that Severus rammed into his decidedly unyielding end of the mammoth parcel and responded by releasing a string of obscenities that would have made Minerva McGonagall blush. Dumbledore, however, seemed to have gone temporarily deaf (as was usually the case with Severus) and just smiled absently. While Severus continued to curse wheezingly, he opened a heavy door to a rather deserted looking room – and all at once – seemed to find what he was looking for.

Indeed, it seemed to be the case, for with twinkling eyes, he turned to Severus and beckoned him to step over the threshold. Groaning and wincing inwardly – Severus strode over to the room, and peered, scowling, inside.

The room was certainly deserted. Cobwebs stretched from corner to corner like strange, silvery parodies of paper chains. Dust thickly quilted the floor and old wood wormed chairs were stacked up against the walls, looming out from the shadows – brooding towers – and were all but forgotten. Aside from the chairs, the room itself was devoid of any other furnishings, and also seemed to have been devoid of any life – or indeed, unlife, as was usually the case with deserted rooms at Hogwarts – for quite some time. The only remnant of the outside world that ever touched this lonely room was the light, which filtered in through the few dusty windows – lending the room an eerie, ethereal hue, which made Severus, altogether, strangely unsettled.

"I think, my dear Severus, that we have found what we've been looking for," the Headmaster whispered suddenly in his ear, making him start.

Severus blushed. Angry with himself for jumping, he regained his composure by ironing his face and slapping on his customary sneer.

"…And pray tell, Headmaster. What exactly _have_ we found, after this past, cursed hour?" Severus snapped.

"Why, what we have been looking for, Severus," the Headmaster replied in earnest, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Now do stop gaping, and kindly help me with this package".

Severus shut his mouth abruptly and mechanically stooped to lift (hopefully for the last time) the mysterious object into the lonely classroom, swearing that this would be the first and last time he ever helped this tiresome old dotard with his equally tiresome errands. However, Severus knew as well as anyone, that Albus Dumbledore was no tiresome old dotard. In fact (although Severus would _never_ admit it openly), Albus Dumbledore was one of the most shrewd and clever people he had ever met – this coming from a pureblood, Slytherin. 

Smiling slightly (although only slightly,) Severus hefted up the heavy package into a vertical position – where it seemed to stand quite capably on its own, with no need for support – and stepped back and mopped his brow with the back of his sleeve, sweeping away a strand of ebony hair from his eyes.

Standing upright, and illuminated by the eerie, grey glow, the structure – or whatever the cursed thing was – seemed rather… sinister. Covered still in its brown paper wrapping and string, it looked on the outside, rather nondescript.

However, Severus could sense that the object, whatever it was, was powerfully magical. For Merlin's sake, he could practically reach out and touch the aura of raw magic emanating from the substantial object! Severus was overcome by a sudden and unfounded desire to tear down the wrapping and gaze upon the object and his wish was unexpectedly granted, as the Headmaster stepped forward and began to strip the contents from their wrappings. Not wanting to seem idle (of course), he quickly joined the Headmaster in tearing off the paper.

As the last sheet fell, Severus gazed up, looking with interest to see what this bloody thing was that he had carried halfway round the school and back.

It was, in fact, a mirror. A bloody impressive mirror at that.

An ornate structure, looking as though it had been crafted from a single lump of solid gold, stretched from the dusty floor to the lofty cobwebbed ceiling and rested on two huge clawed, golden feet (the feet being the end he had run in to a little earlier, he thought sourly). The mirror itself must have been set into its grand frame sometime after the frame was carved, as he didn't quite know why, but he felt that the mirror somehow didn't belong to its lavish frame. It made him feel a little uneasy to look at it, and a cold shiver ran down his spine, making him shudder when he inadvertently locked eyes with himself.

It was time to go.

"Headmaster, if you're quite done now, I think I'd like to get back to my marking," Severus said slowly, unable to take his eyes from the mirror.

There was no answer.

"Headmaster?" Severus said, turning around now, only to find that he was utterly alone in the eerie, forgotten classroom.

"Hmph," Severus snorted, tossing his head angrily. "He could have at least told me he was…"

Severus trailed off.

For something had caught his eye. Something that was previously unseen, half hidden in the shadows where the light did not fall. Something that made Severus catch his breath…

Creeping forward to the mirror, he rose up on tiptoe and raised a thin, delicate hand to the smooth, curved strip above the mirror and slowly wiped away the dust to reveal a heavily engraved inscription, which read:

"Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi".

__

Erised. The infamous Mirror of Erised… 

In the History of Magic class in his day at Hogwarts, he had learned of this mystical enigma, and knew vaguely the mirror's use. When he had become a professor, he had then heard rumours that the mirror was kept, hidden away, within the very walls of Hogwarts. The mirror, which gave neither knowledge, nor truth, was now standing silently and expectantly before him.

He now knew, without a doubt, why Dumbledore had enlisted his help beforehand and why he had so suddenly and abruptly left – and smiled nastily as he remembered the previous night's conversation with the Headmaster.

What was his heart's desire? 

He truly did not know. 

Whatever it was, it was obscene. 

It was obscene how he feared and loathed Tom Riddle, taking the first opportunity that arose to betray him and the fold. Yet somewhere in his heart, somewhere in the deepest, darkest recesses of his heart – he was fascinated by him. Drawn irresistibly to his power, to his mellifluous voice, to his piercing gaze that could penetrate into the very recesses of your soul. His very presence sent electric shivers of adrenaline through him at the mere memory. Drawn in helplessly by his mind – his brilliant mind – sharp and brilliant like shards of fractured glass…

But he had turned. 

Turned from the fold and betrayed his Lord. Betrayed his Lord and became a spy for Albus Dumbledore. A weak minded, cowardly, traitorous spy…

His mind and heart were in turmoil, and Albus had sensed it. Last night, Albus had asked quietly if he had ever regretted it. 

He couldn't answer him…

__

…and he hated himself for it.

Severus's eyes began to sting with the beginnings of hot tears. However, he determinedly forced them back, clenched his fists tightly and took a deep shuddering breath.

"Well, Severus…" he whispered to himself. "What is your heart's desire? What would you see…?"

Steeling himself, he stepped forward once again and locked eyes with himself – although it clearly was not himself. The image of a tall, thin man with shoulder length black hair and long, thin, pale fingers stared comfortably back at him with glittering black eyes and thin lips curled into a smug sneer. Severus stared stonily back at his "reflection", trembling slightly – fearing what this apparition might show him. 

For a heartbeat, he nearly turned and fled – but something kept him there. 

It was now, or never…

__

"Show me…" he whispered shakily.

His reflection took a step forward, and in one fluid motion, it jerked up the sleeve of its left arm and thrust it in front of Severus – smiling nastily.

There was nothing. Not a blemish, not a scratch. Nothing.

The tears now trickled freely down Severus's pale cheeks as he realised. He now understood what his heart's desire was and, although he began to feel a little afraid – he could now answer Albus fully and wholeheartedly.

His reflection had now rolled up its sleeve, and stood, smiling back at Severus – watching expectantly. Severus managed a watery nod to the apparition in recognition, and it nodded back once – then disappeared. Wiping his tear stained eyes with the back of his sleeve, he turned round to leave…

…and ran straight into the Headmaster.

"Coming Severus?" the Headmaster asked conversationally, clearly ignoring Severus's distressed appearance.

Severus, extremely grateful, played along. Drying his eyes and holding his head up high – he walked out of the room in front of the Headmaster – oblivious to the warm smile that was given to him from behind. Behind Severus, the Headmaster nodded, looking extremely relieved, then took Severus by the arm steered him away from the mirror and out of the room.

"Come, my dear Severus. There's a delicious looking cream cake downstairs that I wish to sample," Dumbledore said brightly.

Severus let himself be swept away downstairs and smiled slightly, as he remembered his reflection with neither a blemish, not a scratch.

"…his mind may be brilliant," Severus thought to himself. "_But in the end, it is ultimately fractured"._

He was ready – and he had never regretted it.


	2. Minerva McGonagall

"What Would You See…?"

a series of short stories by Ada Kensington

Minerva McGonagall blushed furiously, standing hidden around the corner from where her colleague Severus Snape stood – cursing furiously like a trooper – with Albus Dumbledore and the mysterious, large, rectangular package that had so lately aroused a strong, and insatiable, curiosity in her. So strong, that she abandoned all notion of protocol (albeit with careful planning and weighing out of consequences first) and had decided to go against her better judgement.

She had followed them. Followed them from Albus's office, to the dungeons, to the West Wing, to the Astronomy Tower, past the Muggle Studies rooms, away from the Arithmancy classes, up and down, left and right – until she felt quite disorientated.

They were now clearly in on old (dare she say it…ancient) and obviously disused part of the building. A fine layer of dust even caked the floorboards of the corridor, where, by tracing the wavering prints left by Albus and Severus, she tracked them easily by casting a simple hover charm upon herself and floating silently along behind them like the Bloody Baron, until she came to this dusty corner, where Albus and Severus had stopped – or so it seemed – for the last time. Watching them lugging the paper-wrapped package the size of a door, through the actual door, with much muttering and mumbling from Severus – she nestled down into her corner – and waited.

Suddenly, after what felt like an age, she heard two swift pairs of footsteps exiting the room, and two muffled voices conversing … well, _one_ muffled voice conversing brightly – the other answering in short monosyllables. The owners of the voices rounded the corner and – fearing discovery – Minerva shrank back into the shadows … and at the same time – shrunk physically _in_ the shadows – limbs shortening and evening out, body contorting into a horizontal position (much better for creeping stealthily on soft, grey paws), eyes now glinting in the darkness, pupils lengthening and claws retracting.

After a while, Minerva McGonagall poked her fluffy little head around the corner and watched Albus and Severus round another bend, and if she could've gasped – she most certainly would have. The two were walking, arm-in-arm, with Albus comforting a clearly distressed Severus Snape – who had grown rather paler and shakier since the furious swearing a moment ago (her fur bristled as she recalled the obscenities). Waiting till they were out of sight, she sniffed the air to check whether the pair were sufficiently far away enough to safely expose herself. When she was satisfied, she padded softly out onto the main corridor, and creeping over to the vacant room, she nudged the door open softly with her nose – and entered.

__

Was the package dangerous? Or was it indirectly dangerous like the Philosopher's Stone… Minerva wondered quietly – the nondescript little stone occupying much of her mind since its untimely arrival at Hogwarts. _It must pose some sort of threat_… she concluded. _Otherwise why would Albus need to keep it here?_

…_and why would it distress Severus so…?_

Trying not to dwell on it, she continued to pad through the lonely, dusty room, and her eyes and hears – augmented in her changed state – meant that she could see further into the darkness and hear more amongst the dry, dusty silence. At the back of the room she could make out an old blackboard, covered in fine fragments of powdery dirt and faint diagrams – illustrating the niceties of turning an armadillo into a tea cozy – and some stacks of yellowing blank rolls of parchment, stuffed into the nooks and crannies behind the towering stacks of desks and chairs, that dwarfed her little, feline form. She also noticed, quite quickly, that this room was even dustier than the corridor outside, and she sneezed and coughed – dust catching in her throat and onto her fur – impairing her vision and making her look like an irate, little ghost-tabby.

Having had quite enough of the dust, Minerva resumed her usual form, and spent a few seconds beating the dust off of her velvet, emerald-green robes and wiping the grime from her eyes – and upon turning round to get a better look, minus the swirling clouds of dust swarming up to greet her – uttered a small, quickly stifled cry.

Surrounded by a moat of brown paper packaging and string – was the Mirror of Erised – illuminated by a shaft of ghostly, spectral, half-light that filtered in heavily through the grimy windows – dominating the room and sitting there – half in shadow, half in light. Bridging the gap between the real and the _fantastic…_

Minerva turned to run out of the room and got as far as the door – then paused to look back.

__

Now she realised why Severus seemed so distressed…

She had encountered the mirror once before. She had been patrolling in and around the Library one clear, cloudless midnight, watching for any signs of students out of bed. However, she hadn't been watching herself, as she had roamed out of the Library in a dream, past Argus Filch and Mrs Norris – and suddenly found herself confronted with the strange, powerful and mystifying Mirror of Erised.

However, she had turned and fled – fearing what the Mirror would have shown her – and ran back, without stopping, to her quarters and shut herself in – trembling from head to foot. That night, she had lost her nerve, and all of her self-control…

…_and it scared her._

Anger rose up inside her like bile – hot and bitter – at the memory.

"Make me look like a coward, would you?" she said, her voice thick with barely suppressed fury – whirling round and walking swiftly back towards the mirror and stopping short – squaring herself, wrath in front of the mirror… but standing right in front of the mirror was a lot harder than she gave it credit for.

The anger dissipated, and she was left, trembling slightly with the aftermath of the adrenaline rush, in front of the mirror.

"So, what _would_ you see?" she asked herself quietly.

She took a hesitant step forward and watched herself materialise, smokily, in front of her, smiling warmly as if it could sense her distress. Heartened by this show of warmth from the mirror, her fear and apprehension faded to all but nothing – and feeling a little braver now – she nodded at the figure and waited.

Her reflection faded, and dissipated into a swirling mist – forming several smoky images: Albus talking earnestly with her in his cluttered office. Herself - keeping a level head while Severus yet again lost his. Pupils, both past and present, coming to her for help and advice. Again, herself sitting in silence in the Great Hall – remaining strong – no matter how long the death toll grew. 

"You may stop now," Minerva whispered, closing her watery eyes and smiling as her reflection gave her one last encouraging smile – and faded back into the mirror.

She realised now, what her heart's desire was – although, in her heart, she knew that she had known it all along. She wanted to be stronger. She wanted to be reliable, to be counted on, to be levelheaded and trusted. To know that she would be strong when the hard times came…

__

…and when they did, she would face them – stronger and readier than ever before.

A little while later, two pairs of fluffy, grey paws scampered out of the _not quite_ desolate room, and down and round the corner of the _not quite_ forgotten corridor – eventually emerging out into the relative civilisation of the Great Hall – and bounded up to the Gryffindor Tower, where their owner curled up on the bed and fell asleep soundly.

__

That was one strong, reliable, happy, little cat.


	3. Remus Lupin

What Would You See ?

a series of short stories by Ada Kensington

The sound of small footsteps running recklessly echoed through the dark, moonlit corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – but little Remus Lupin was past caring. He cared not for Filch, not for the all-seeing eyes of Mrs Norris, not for Professor McGonagall and not even for Dumbledore. In fact, he half wished that one of them – preferably Dumbledore, who had most authority – caught him and sent him home. For a mundane life at home would be one hundred times better than the life of silence and fear that he lived at Hogwarts.

Blinded by tears, the quiet, good-natured, Remus Lupin ran, staggering and sobbing, round another corner, and another, and another – until he fell, exhausted, through a heavy, unlocked, oak door and lay upon the freezing flagstone floor, trembling – hugging his knees and sobbing silently in the darkness.

Why did it have to be him? Why did it choose to bite him? Why did he have to be such a freak? Did that werewolf know that that one bite had condemned him to a life of misery, pain and exclusion? 

Probably not, but he was sure that although that werewolf could not remember biting him – and did not intentionally target him – they themselves knew the pain he was going through – and had most likely suffered the same torment as he had, Remus concluded, tearfully. But it wasn't his fault! So why did he have to suffer for it? No one even knew his secret yet. So why did they still pick on him?

It wasn't fair…

***

A heavy hand came down from nowhere and knocked his books and ink from his arms in an explosion of loose paper and quills. His jar of ink, mercifully, hit the ground rolling – but was stopped abruptly by a large, heavy foot, whose heavy-set owner bent down and picked up the bottle, grinning nastily at Remus through a curtain of thick, brown hair. 

Remus knew what was coming.

"Hello, Avery."

"Morning, sick boy," a trollish voice replied conversationally – now flanked by three other Slytherin boys – all in first year, like Remus – but much, much bigger than he was.

"I have to go. I'm going to be late for potions," Remus mumbled, bending down to pick up his books.

However, instead of grabbing a book, a foot struck out and kicked him forcefully in the ribs. Remus let out a gasp of pain and bubbles burst in front of his eyes, making him dizzy. He fell to the ground. Then more feet started kicking – a steady rhythm of heavy feet slamming into Remus's chest and legs – making his ribcage jar and tighten agonisingly. He could make out the roaring call of a voice amongst the jeering laughter of his tormentors:

"Coming, Snape? Want to take a shot?"

"Sod off, Avery. I'm going to be late for potions," the voice answered curtly (and seeming to Remus, as it were coming from the other end of a tin can fellytone). 

His tormentors ceased to torment for a moment, and Remus took the opportunity to take a few deep, shuddering breaths, wanting to crawl away – but unable to – as he heard another pair of footsteps coming to join the savage throng.

"That's pathetic," a smooth voice sneered haughtily. "I didn't think you were that much of a coward, Avery, but it seems as though I was--"

Avery lunged at the offender. There was a blinding flash, which made Remus's head spin, and Avery flew through the air – landing on the floor with a thump. Remus could head him screaming something about his arms. Blearily turning around, he saw a pale, scrawny boy with greasy, black hair pointing his wand at the other three boys – his black eyes glittering dangerously and his hair flying wildly over his face.

__

"Do - not – mess – with – me. Understand, Rosier? Wilkes? Lestrange?" he said softly, as if daring them to make any sudden moves.

The three other boys nodded warily, as if the other Snape boy would blow them apart if they so much as flickered an eyelid. The Snape boy smiled nastily and nodded and glancing quickly at Remus's prone form – he turned and walked away silently.

Suddenly, two boys thundered round the corner, yelling something that Remus could not make out. Rosier, Wilkes and Lestrange darted away after the Snape boy, leaving Avery behind, whimpering.

__

"Remus???"

A worried face bent over Remus's bloody face. A worried face with messy, black hair and square-rimmed spectacles, which was soon joined by another worried face with lightly tanned skin and a handsome complexion. James Potter and Sirius Black.

"What did that piece of filth do to you, Remus?" Siruis growled, tossing his head over in the direction of the whimpering Avery.

"S'okay. Used to it," he mumbled, trying to get up – and failing miserably.

"We'd better take them to the hospital wing, Sirius," James whispered.

__

"What? Even that slimy?--" Sirius yelled.

James nodded, and slung Remus's unresponsive arm over his shoulder and heaved him up.

"Come on, Remus. We'll take you to the hospital wing…"

Remus nodded absently – then passed out.

***

Starting, Remus awoke to find himself sitting bolt upright in a cold, empty room. He had fallen asleep after crashing through the door to this place.

For one sickening moment, he thought he'd slept in and was late for Charms – but the thought was quickly quashed as he saw the moonlight filtering in through the windows.

__

"Moonlight," he whispered, and shuddered at the thought.

Getting up stiffly, he thought about returning to his bed in the dormitory… and was just about to… when he felt an unfounded urge to have a look around the room.

Padding silently across the pleasantly cool floor in his bare feet, he placed a cold, shaky hand upon a smooth, stone pillar which rose up, up, up into the lofty rafters – where it joined it's partners in making arches that ran all the way down the room – continued by chains of other smooth, stone pillars, making a grand corridor.

Remus had to admit; the room did look a little creepy in the half-darkness. Great looming shadows made by the pillars – then deep impenetrable shadows in the corners where the light never fell, but… hard as it was to explain… he felt somewhat at ease in this calm, moonlit, solitary room…

Rounding another pillar, his gaze was immediately captured by a dazzlingly, crystalline sheen. It was the moonlight, reflected by a massive mirror in an extravagant solid gold frame, supported by two huge, taloned feet. 

Amazed by the beauty of the object, Remus started slowly towards the mirror – his blue eyes wide and his mouth agape. Nearing the mirror, he could make out an inscription carved, in a gothic style, in a curve over the mirror:

"_Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi."_

"Erised stra ehru… what?" Remus whispered, puzzled.

Reading it over and over and repeating the inscription to himself countless times – he realised that this inscription was a riddle of some sort…

"I show… not your face… but… your… _heart's desire_!" Remus exclaimed eventually, beaming because he had solved the riddle.

Remus's gaze then travelled down towards his reflection in the mirror and his smile faded.

"Well then, Mirror. Let's see if you're anywhere near close," Remus said, soberly.

His reflection (to Remus's fright) nodded, and winked at him. Then, shimmering like a vision of the horizon through a heat haze, two people appeared with their arms around Remus's shoulders, smiling. Two people appeared – and made Remus burst into tears. 

It was James Potter and Sirius Black … and they were… _friends_…with him.

He had friends. Friends who accepted him for what he was…

…_and didn't care._

Hot silent tears trickled down his pale cheeks as he stared, infatuated, at the mirror. The image of James and Sirius stirred something inside him, making him sick with longing. However, Remus knew that what he beheld was not a reflection of reality – and that it was no use in pretending – for (as he had so often been told by his father), it did not do to dwell on dreams…

"Remus! There you are!" a voice whispered.

Remus whirled around, wiping his eyes, ready to make up yet another lie… but there was no one there.

"W-who's there?" Remus asked, warily.

"Over here, stupid," a familiar voice answered, as two grinning figures appeared as if from nowhere.

It was James Potter and Sirius Black.

"Peter said he saw you leaving. Down towards the Library, he said," Sirius said smiling.

"So we got under this," James finished, flashing a silvery cloak, "and came looking for you."

Remus gasped.

"Is that an Invisibility Cloak?" he asked, astounded, taking a step back.

"Sure is," James replied, grinning from ear to ear. "Come on. There's room for three under here – that's why Peter couldn't come," he added.

"Well, what're we waiting for," Sirius exclaimed, putting an arm round Remus's shoulder. "Let's get going before old Filch and his mangy, old, moggy, catch us."

Remus was herded under the Invisibility Cloak by James and Sirius, and was swept away and out of the room… but not before he stole a last look back at the mirror, and at his reflection, which grinned widely at him, winked, then faded.

Sirius must've noticed him staring, as he turned to try and see what Remus was looking at, and noticed the mirror.

"Cool mirror!" Sirius exclaimed. "Wonder why its way up here…"

Remus shrugged, and was steered out of the room and up to the Gryffindor Tower amidst whispered talk of Quidditch and invitations to come and watch the next practise, and of how much trouble they'd be in the Filch caught them, and of their upcoming transfiguration exam - and he let the talk just wash over him.

For the first time in his life – he had friends and he had been accepted.

…and he was truly happy.


	4. Sirius Black

What Would You See ?

A series of short stories by Ada Kensington

__

Got to get out of here… can't be seen… or the Dementors… they'll get me…

Sirius Black's hollow eyes darted nervously from left to right and from right to left – searching, _desperately_, for a place to hide. If he didn't find one soon – with all his recent luck – the Dementors would probably be slithering up through the Entrance Hall and up the stairs and… and…

__

…don't think about it.

Then, a light flickered on in a room nearby. Sirius's heart leapt into his mouth – and on a gut reaction – he dived into the nearest room, landing hard upon the wooden floor with a soft hiss of pain. Rolling, and staggering upright – he slotted himself into the space behind the door – his heart thundering in his chest, which was rising and falling rapidly, and he could feel his hot, ragged breaths condensing upon the cool, wooden door, which was pressed right up against his pale face.

This, he thought wryly, had to be the most stupid thing he'd ever done. Never mind that time where he'd tricked Severus Snape into visiting Remus on the full moon. Push to the sidelines, the time where he'd smashed all of Evan Rosier's front teeth in with his beater's club for fouling James – and take out of the limelight, the time he'd gone charging after Peter Pettigrew in a fit of rage, which had gotten him into this state in the first place.

No. This definitely takes the cake, he thought, with a grin. Breaking into Hogwarts right under the noses of Albus Dumbledore and the Dementors of Azkaban? What will you resort to next, Sirius Black? he thought to himself with a small smile.

His answer came much more quickly than he expected.

Footsteps were approaching the room – and fast. The torches in the brackets on the corridor walls outside flickered into life. The footsteps halted outside the room – and their owner fumbled for their wand and their keys. The door must've locked when he closed it behind him after running in here… but any minute now, they'd be in – and he'd be caught.

__

He hadn't much time…

Sirius stepped out from his hiding place, his eyes darting wildly from left to right – searching, searching, searching desperately for a place to hide… searching desperately for something.

…and he found that something standing in a corner of the room.

It was a large, rectangular object – perhaps some kind of frame – or a very large door. Anyway, dimensions and possible shapes aside, it was covered from top to bottom with a large, mouldy, old dustsheet – and was placed with it's back to a corner with a small space between the… thing…and the corner that was just big enough for a man to hide in.

That settled it. Without a moment's hesitation, Sirius threw himself across the dark room and leapt into the little gap – throwing the dustsheet over him – covering himself completely – and waited.

***

Rage…

__

…blind, all-consuming, sickening rage.

__

Peter…. Peter, you damned, detested, despicable, coward …

Getting Peter was all that he could think about. It had consumed him. It had become an obsession. It was a need. But it was justified. He had to avenge James… had to avenge Lilly… and Harry, poor Harry. Poor, innocent, little Harry – who would now grow up without loving parents because of that spineless little_ rat_…

He had followed Peter, tracked him down, chasing after him through day and night – forsaking food, sleep and all respite – needing to end him, needing to make him realise what he'd done…

__

…needing to make Peter pay.

Sirius rounded another corner, cannoning into two Muggle office workers as he staggered after Peter – jarring their shoulders – but unaware of the indignant looks that were thrown his way – only of his blood rushing dangerously through his veins, his feet pounding down the pavement – and of Peter.

He could see him! The bastard had turned down into the High Street…

__

…trying to lose me, eh? Not in this lifetime, Pettigrew…

Impossible as it may seem, he increased his speed and sprinted – flat out – round the corner and into the busy High Street. Peter was now clearly visible, running down the crowded street – his thin hair blowing madly in the strong breeze, his eyes swivelling madly from left to right – wide with fear – pushing people out of the way as he fought desperately to lose himself from Sirius's unrelenting chase.

Sirius was gaining. He was now much closer…twenty feet… fifteen… ten…

Peter had run across a road and whirled round wildly – breathing deep, rapid, ragged breaths.

…and they locked gazes – Pettigrew's weak, watery blue, meeting squarely with Sirius's smouldering dark.

The silence crackled and hummed. The air thrummed with unreleased tension. The grey clouds overhead were electrically charged with negative energy – and the sky churned and swirled rapidly, and the wind gradually dissipated – leaving only the stifling, humid air. 

Something was about to break.

__

…and then – it broke.

Pettigrew, suddenly, came to his senses – and breaking from Sirius's gaze, he staggered backwards and fell to the ground, shrieking:

"Stay away! K-Keep back! Don't come any closer!" 

Sirius started towards Pettigrew, striding across the road, reaching for his wand – ready to blow the little bastard back to hell – heedless of the toots from the horns of the angered drivers and of the crowd that was starting to gather at the scene.

__

"You filthy little coward!" he screamed hoarsely. _"Stand up and fight like a man for once in your miserable life!!!"_

Peter, shaking, stood up slowly – trembling from head to foot – with his wild, colourless hair over his face and pacing from one foot to another – his eyes darting from left to right – trying to seek any possible route for escape – his hands twitching visibly behind his back. Then…

__

"H-He killed them!!!" Peter shrieked – thrusting one hand out from behind his back and pointing it at Sirius. _"HE KILLED LILLY AND JAMES!!!"_

The crowd of people turned as one, to stare in wide-mouthed horror at the now rapidly advancing Sirius…

__

"HOW DARE YOU?" Sirius roared. _"HOW DARE YOU?"_

Sirius was nearly upon Peter. 

Just one more step… 

There was a pause.

Time froze.

Peter jerked his hand in front of him. Then… there was a shriek of pain and a flash of crimson …and suddenly… a dazzling flash and an earth-shattering explosion threw Sirius violently from his feet, bursting his eardrums, making dark bubbles burst in front of his eyes as his head was pounded by the fierce, sudden back draft – his skin curling with the intense heat of the flames.

Landing some feet away on the ground, heavily, he felt a dozen strong pairs of arms grabbing him – restraining him, pinning him down – but he couldn't fight back. There were cries and shrieks of pain and grief amidst the chaos. Pettigrew had caused it. He had caused all this pain. Lilly and James were dead… and he had failed them.

The Aurors stunned him.

***

The footsteps had exited the room; their owners had extinguished the lights and had walked away down the corridor – searching in vain for Sirius Black.

After a tense few minutes, he stepped out from under the cover and hopped out of the corner space. However, he caught a corner of the dustsheet, and managed to take it with him, tripping and staggering ungainly out onto the wooden floor, falling noisily to the ground, wrapped in the mouldy, old sheet.

Sirius cringed instinctively and froze – but heard not a sound. Breathing a sigh of relief, he turned round, trying to untangle himself from the dustsheet – and only then saw the mirror.

Unsheathed, in all its grandeur and mystical glory – stood the infamous Mirror of Erised. Sirius knew the mirror by sight, as Remus had told himself and James about the time when he had accidentally stumbled upon the mirror in his first year at Hogwarts. Hell, he had even saw it – when he and James had come to rescue Remus from Filch's clutches that fateful night when they had first become proper friends.

"Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi," he read grimly, nodding to himself.

__

I show not your face, but your heart's desire… 

Peering into the mirror, Sirius's ragged, emaciated figure appeared, rising smokily into focus. It looked at Sirius and gestured at him – inviting to come closer and have a look.

"No thanks," he said. "I don't think I need your help in deciphering my heart's desire…"

His reflection, however, did not seem to think so. An image appeared – that made Sirius nod, grimly.

It was Peter, lying on the ground – eyes open wide with terror – but glazed, unseeing and unmistakably dead. Bloody and broken, Peter was stretched out upon the ground and Sirius beheld himself, standing, looking down upon Peter grimly with… with James at his shoulder – not looking happy – but knowing that justice had been done.

Seeing James again, however, was a little too much for Sirius's already heightened emotional state, and, for the first time in a very long time, hot tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and trickled down his waxen cheeks.

"_James… James, I'm so sorry," _he whispered, shakily. "_I let you down. I let Lilly down… I let Harry down… I know I did. But I swear to you that, this time, I will not let you down. I swear to you, on my life, that Peter will pay. I promise, James…_

__

…and I promise that your memory will be avenged."

Without a backward glance, Sirius upped and left – creeping out of the room, along and up to the corridor – the right corridor, fortunately – tapping the one-eyed witch's hump and emerging, sometime later, from the back door at Honeydukes – and going up into the mountain – he disappeared into the night.

__

…I swear to you, James, that you will be avenged.


	5. Gilderoy Lockhart

What Would You See ?

A Series of Short Stories by Ada Kensington

  
  
With a graceful leap, pirouette and a half twist that should have been accompanied by a dazzling flash of sunshine and little twittering bluebirds – Gilderoy Lockhart flounced into the staff room with a tremendous bang, as the door hit the wall and rattled on its rusty hinges. Grinning from ear to ear and showing off to full sparkling effect, his brilliant white teeth, Gilderoy jogged down towards one of the chairs near the roaring, crackling fireplace just as several other professors happened to be leaving (so sorry, Gilderoy, got marking to do – you know how it is).   
  
He flopped down happily into a deep, squashy old armchair and looked over to the other chair opposite his. Sitting, in a forest green, high backed, velvet armchair, staring fiercely over a book at him – was Severus Snape.   
  
"Hello, Severus," Gilderoy said, smiling widely at his scowling colleague.   
  
Severus ignored him – and turned his diverted attention back to his book.   
  
"How were your little treasures today, then?" Gilderoy asked, undaunted, despite his colleague's overt display of animosity.   
  
Professor Snape's eyes rose slowly up to meet Gilderoy's. Smiling suddenly, his black eyes glittering with malice – he placed his book down slowly and deliberately on the little table next to his armchair. Without averting his gaze, he sat back in the chair – steepling his fingers – his face half shrouded in the convenient shadows created by the chair, half illuminated by the madly flickering flames of the fire – looking intentionally gaunt and intimidating, in order create maximum discomfort. It was a technique that he used fairly often in classes – and was a technique that never failed.   
  
"Once again – with the exception of the majority of my Slytherins, who, as per usual, manage to gain acceptable marks – the classes were abysmal."   
  
Gilderoy was just about to open his mouth to speak, when Professor Snape overrode him.   
  
"…The Gryffindors in particular were their usual tiresome, troublesome selves – brewing grossly inadequate potions – if I could bring myself to call them potions," Snape said silkily. "Either too thick, or too thin. Watery diluted messes or stodgy, turgid soups and in the more extreme cases of idiocy – burnt solid and encrusted round the bottom of the cauldrons for all eternity, no matter how many scouring charms I cast. Volatile, exploding concoctions that plaster the dungeon walls with a vivid, poisonous living ooze – which just happens to cover half the class, who have to be carted off to the hospital wing due to one idiot dunderhead of a Gryffindor called Neville Longbottom." 

Gilderoy mouthed soundlessly for a moment, a little shaken by this sudden, angry outburst from Professor Snape and smiled a confused smile as Severus's stare continued to burn into him from within the shadows of the dark armchair. However, being Gilderoy, he recovered himself and plastered on his customary wide, glittering smile again and sat forward in his chair – casting a sly, conspiratorial wink at his stony-faced colleague.   
  
"Well, Severus. You know that Potions is quite a difficult subject to teach at the best of times – and when you have unruly students to teach – well, even the best of us have difficulties…"   
  
The silence was deafening.   
  
Professor Snape blinked and slid forward towards Gilderoy in one fluid, menacing motion and stopped only when he was eye to eye with the now nervously smiling and fidgeting Lockhart.   
  
"Are you saying, Gilderoy," Snape whispered in his most deceptively silky tone, "that I have difficulty in teaching my students? That I do not have the knowledge to teach the subtle science and exact art that is potion making? Nay, that I am incompetent?"   
Gilderoy actually considered this.   
  
"We-ell…" he began, with an irritatingly condescending smile at the now furious Professor Snape. "Maybe, if you'd let me have a crack at it – I mean, I'm starting on a new book at the moment – Hogwarts Conquered, by Magical Me – and well, to be perfectly honest, Severus, the experience would be good for both you and I. I've heard the potions classes are pretty grim and with me showing you a few tips, well, maybe you wouldn't have so many explosions, eh?"   
Severus considered this.   
  
"How about," he replied after an extremely awkward pause, " I shove your offer up your arse and shrivel your overly large head to reveal the empty, brainless, fluff-filled crevice that it really is - then display it on a spike above the entrance hall for all to see and be thankful for – thereby ridding the public of yet another incompetent, irritating, menace to society?"   
  
Gilderoy's perfectly polished peachy cheeks turned a violent shade of crimson and he started blustering and mouthing indignantly. Who was this horrible, rude man with his horrible, greasy, black hair and his horrible sickly complexion to insult him like that? I mean, who could teach a class – any class – better than he could? Well…maybe some - but that was beside the point. But where could you find a more loved, popular and respected teacher anywhere in the world? Nowhere! And certainly not a horrible, sarcastic, bitter man like Severus Snape.   
  
"Well," said Gilderoy, rising and dusting himself down as if Professor Snape's insult had somehow stained his soft, forget-me-not robes. "It is understandable what drives your enmity towards me – and I must say that I do not blame you in the least. I mean to say, it must be a little overwhelming to be suddenly working alongside one so experienced and well-informed in his subject – I mean, my adventures are legend" he said, laughing affectedly. "But I must say that I'm surprised, Severus. I really didn't think you'd be one to give in to sour grapes." 

  
With that, Gilderoy proudly turned his back on that nasty Potions Master and with a flick of his sun kissed locks, strutted out of the decidedly old and very uncoordinated staff room – leaving behind a furious Severus Snape (which, when he thought about it, was probably for the best.   
  
Flouncing through the corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the way which only Gilderoy Lockhart could pull off after a job considered well done – he climbed up the stairs (well, when I say climbed, it was more…pranced…) and headed in the general direction of his quarters. I say "general" because moments later, he found himself totally and utterly lost in what seemed to him to be a long deserted corridor.   
  
The place was absolutely frightful. Caked with a layer of thick dust, the floor bent round to reveal another strange stretch of corridor, marred now by two sets of faded, wavering footprints and some equally faded little paw prints.   
  
Gilderoy noted that all the prints led, mysteriously, into the same room, and then a thought occurred…   
  
_Slytherin's monster… _  
  
He was just about to make a run for it when…   
  
"Lost, Lockhart?" sneered a cold and most unwelcome voice.   
  
"Severus!" Gilderoy exclaimed brightly, whirling round. "What a most pleasant surprise!"   
  
"I'm sure," Professor Snape said, smiling nastily. "The Headmaster sent me to check up on you, in case you'd gotten lost again."   
  
"Ah? Well. Dumbledore need have no fear. It won't happen again," Gilderoy replied gravely. "Not now that I've gotten my bearings."   
  
"Most fortunate," Severus sneered. "Then I can leave you to find your own way back to your quarters?"   
  
Startled, Gilderoy quickly surveyed his surroundings. To his left – stood dark, deserted corridor. To his right – stood more dark, deserted corridor. Right in front of him - stood Severus Snape. He wasn't sure which frightened him the most…   
  
"Err…well…yes, of course. Of course, Severus. Of course you may," he said quickly. "I-In fact, yes, in fact I was just taking a little look around up here because I've had a hunch for a while now that Slytherin's monster could be hiding out somewhere near here. I've been tracking it for a while now – and it seems that this room – this very room – could be the place!"

At that moment, Professor Snape had to fight very hard to choke back a derisive snort of laughter at Lockhart's absolutely disgusting, and (if he didn't loathe the man so much) pitiable exhibition of his mindless egotism, and Gilderoy – being not completely without brains – had noted this with increasing amounts of anger and indignation. He could positively feel his cheeks glowing scarlet with embarrassment. The red would almost certainly clash with the forget-me-not. This would not do.

He was just about to open his mouth and tell Snape exactly what he thought of him, when he saw the look on Severus Snape's unusually pale face that stopped him – with barely concealed surprise – in his tracks. It was a queer look – very strange, really. Completely out of character for the man. It was – what was the word – a rather… faraway look, and where his colleague's eyes had once glittered with malice – they were now glossy and cold, staring woodenly at the very doorway that Gilderoy had previously the aspirations to leg it from. It was a queer look - and it unnerved him.

"Err… Severus, old chap?"

Nothing.

"Severus?" 

Another awkward pause.

"Severus? I say, are you all right there, Severus?"

Suddenly, Snape's thin hand jabbed through the air and mercilessly gripped Gilderoy's shirt collar tightly like a psychotic grindylow, and pulling him forcefully towards him, Snape whispered venomously into Lockhart's ear: 

__

"So, Lockhart. You wish to see a monster? Then follow me. Now."

Snape dragged Lockhart choking and spluttering down the dusty, deserted corridor with his face grim and set. Kicking open the door, Snape threw Gilderoy onto the filthy floor, then, kneeling down beside the mass of dishevelled, blonde curls – he grabbed a handful of them with his vice like grip and forced Lockhart's head upwards.

"You see that, Lockhart?" Snape hissed, pointing to something that Gilderoy couldn't quite make out due to the choking clouds of dust in front of his eyes.

"Err…see what, Severus? I do declare that I haven't the foggiest idea as to what you're pointing at!" he whined – being Gilderoy, replying as only he could reply in a potentially hostile situation such as the one he was currently in.

Severus's grip released, and Gilderoy's hair was saved for the time being.

__

"Well get up and look then," Snape snarled. _"Go on!"_

Right at that moment, Gilderoy was practically wetting himself with terror. No, honestly! Lockhart swore he could feel something cold and wet running down the inside of his trouser leg (turned out that it was sweat – but the man was in a tight spot – what could you do?) and with the brooding malevolent shadow that was Severus Snape behind him – who could blame him? Despite all that, however, Gilderoy – being as egotistical and proud as only he could ever be, rose up (a little shakily) from his knees and, once standing, tossed his golden curls jauntily (although the effect was rather spoiled by a large cloud of dust puffing out from his hair and engulfing him for a few moments). After he had finished choking, he shot Professor Snape a sufficiently confident look (oh dear Merlin, it was running down to his shoe!) and started stalking, melodramatically, into the dark heart of the room where the beast apparently lay. Anyway, he reassured himself, if the beast did decide to show up – he'd be out of there faster than Salazar Slytherin at Godric Gryffindor's one thousand years of Gryffindor reunion bash.

But what an anticlimax! After all that unnecessary acting, worry and strife – there was no beast at all (honestly, that Severus!) There was only a magnificent, solid gold mirror that, with it's ornate and grandiose, glittering extravagance, appealed directly to Gilderoy's superficial sensibility. He couldn't resist it! He just couldn't! It was so incredibly gorgeous! He just had to have a look…

Upon stepping up to the mirror, Gilderoy's reflection rose smokily into vision – complete with flawless curls of pure, fresh-spun gold, bright, baby blue eyes and his own soft, flowing, forget-me-not robes. Extremely pleased with the likeness – Gilderoy became increasingly enraptured with the mirror (he _had _to have this mirror in his quarters – as an accessory, it was a _must_!) and gave himself a jaunty wink. 

Then, to his utter surprise – his reflection dissipated mistily into the mirror, and just when he thought that it had gone – it reappeared and… Oh!

He was wearing the most _gorgeous_ set of fitted robes from Madame Malkin's. They were the most _luscious_ shade of cream imaginable and they had a beautiful long flowing cape – casually thrown over one shoulder. They were trimmed with shimmering gold that perfectly complimented his shimmering hair and he had cream breeches! And cream shoes! With gold buckles, too! 

His heart was full to bursting at this wonderful sight. Everything was positively perfect! Then, as if by magic, he remembered all at once. He turned to Severus – who was still standing in the shadows, with his face twisted into a scowl – beaming idiotically at him.

"Oh, Severus! Cream really _is_ my colour!" he shrieked with delight.

At that, Professor Snape's scowl darkened further (if it was at all possible) and he shook his head, sneering disgustedly and turned on his heel and strode out of the room without a backward glance. Gilderoy was past caring, however, and intended to stay a little while longer, whether he could find his way back to his rooms or not – and that was quite a shame, for if he had been paying enough attention to someone other than himself – he would have heard Snape's last few whispered words, before he walked out of sight:

"Right there before you, is your monster, Lockhart. I bid you good night."


	6. Fred and George Weasley

What Would You See?

A series of Short Stories by Ada Kensington 

The air in the subterranean dungeon class was thick and stifling. Potions bubbled and boiled furiously in their deep, iron cauldrons – their slick, waxy, indigo contents sending misty, shimmering fumes into the air – making the occupants of Snape's Thursday afternoon potions class extremely drowsy and sluggish.

Well, they made the _majority_ of the class drowsy and sluggish. For there were two freckle-faced, red haired students who were by no means interested in the subtle science and exact art of potion making. That was why their particular potion was a watery turquoise, instead of a thick, soupy, indigo, and why they were plotting, in hushed tones, on the best way to disrupt their most hated professor's Thursday afternoon potions class.

There was a particularly tense moment when they thought that they would be caught, as Professor Snape glided soundlessly behind the two and made a remark about their watery potion that would have made Hermione Granger burst into tears, and separated the twins for the fifth time in three weeks – but fortunately, he stalked off to bully Lee Jordan, and all was well.

It was time.

"_Psst…Fred! Hey! Fred!"_ George whispered, grinning evilly. _"Have you got it?"_

Fred nodded, and – grinning just as slyly as his twin – produced a smooth, round, jet-black object about the size and consistency of a small marble from his robes, and winked.

George nodded in acknowledgement and craned his neck round to see where Snape was. 

Professor Snape was now standing a little away, bending over another fuming cauldron, testing the contents with a long, silver ladle, with his back turned to the Weasley Twins.

George turned to Fred and gave him the thumbs up, then Fred placed the little marble-like object into the outstretched palm of his hand and – drawing out his wand from inside his robes – he stood up quickly, pointing his wand at the little black ball, and – taking aim – whispered: "Waddiwassi" – and it zoomed out of his hand and landed in Lee Jordan's cauldron with a muffled _plop_.

Lee started sniggering – being in on the joke – for he knew exactly what it was that Fred Weasley had just fired into his cauldron – and was ready to duck and run when the thing went off. For the little, jet-black ball was, in fact, a prototype explosive from Fred and George's "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes" range of joke products. 

It was an ingenious little thing. Perfect for dropping into potions, because the actual evidence melted away after the explosion took place – and immersion in liquid – any liquid at all – was all that was required to set the thing off. Fred and George had called it a " Pepper-Imp Bomb" and it was "inspired by Dr Filibuster's Wet-Start Fireworks" but was "more efficient, less noticeable" and "leaves no evidence." Encouraged by the recent disaster in Snape's third year class, where someone had launched a firework into a cauldron – the Weasley Twins knew, in their hearts that today was the day to test their latest invention. After today – there would be no want of buyers for their merchandise.

__

There were only a few seconds left... 

Lee tensed; ready to spring out of the way. Fred was covering up a muffled snort of laughter by pretending to be interested in crushing his dried porcupine quills and George was staring intently at Lee's cauldron – his eyes glittering with mischief…

__

Then – there was a knock at the door.

"Come," Professor Snape said lazily, stopping his bullying rounds and walking towards the door.

Professor Lupin popped his head round the door and glanced around the class and smiled. He emerged from the doorway and met Professor Snape halfway across the classroom – right in front of Lee's cauldron.

__

"Merlin's beard!" George groaned through gritted teeth, casting a worried look at Fred, as Lee turned round – looking slightly worried.

__

"What're we going to do?" mouthed Fred, his eyes wide with fear.

After a horrible, horrible moment, their eyes fell, in unison, on the simultaneously wonderful yet terrifying image of both their most hated professor and their most loved professor about to get a faceful of sealing solution. Their mischievous sides almost got the better of them by the sheer temptation of seeing that git, Snape, get covered in sticky, indigo goo – but their Gryffindorian spirits and admiration for the mild-mannered, Professor Lupin overcame even their deepest hatred for Professor Snape, and – as one – they both lunged for a professor.

"PROFESSOR, GET DOWN!" they screamed, as they both tackled the shocked professors to the floor in a clattering avalanche of tables, chairs and potions ingredients. They just caught the beginnings of Professor Snape's: "WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?" 

__

… before the cauldron exploded.

Thick, blue, boiling liquid erupted, Vesuvius-like, from Lee Jordan's upturned, wildly-whirling cauldron and rained down upon the unsuspecting students – covering them in steaming, sticky ooze. Pupils shrieked. Tables and chairs and potions ingredients crashed to the floor amidst the chaos – in turn upsetting further cauldrons of sealing solution, which slithered across the floor like one hundred bright-blue raw eggs and, upon contact, setted immediately – sticking fallen students to the floor, stopping madly sprinting students in their tracks, sealing screaming students mouths shut and sticking their frantic, flailing hands to their hair and faces. The Thursday afternoon potions class – once under the spell of softly shimmering potions and Professor Snape's intimidatory tactics, was now a perfect picture of anarchy.

The class was an utter shambles. 

Soft, muffled whimpers were mingled with hysterical laughter, as each student got the change to survey their surroundings. The floor and walls were covered with a few unfortunate victims, who were plastered there by the thick, sticky sealing solution. Upturned cauldrons, tables and chairs littered the floor – stuck fast by the now fully set potion – and also stuck to the floor, pinned suggestively on top of each other (in the eyes of the students) – were Fred Weasley and Professor Snape.

Fred's face was a mixed picture of fear, embarrassment and amusement – and he had to fight very hard to suppress the hysterical laughter that was threatening to burst out from inside.

Professor Snape's face, however, was nothing of the sort. His pale, sickly face had turned a nasty, brick colour. A vein was throbbing in his temple and his greasy, black hair – thick with the bright blue sealing solution – was flying wild and messily over his face. His flowing black robes were now covered in slick, sticky blue, and he was staring up at Fred in a way that simply said: you are in trouble.

Fred and George started to feel a little sick. How could it have gone so terribly, terribly wrong? 

__

Oh, if only Professor Lupin hadn't come in… 

Suddenly, Professor Snape spoke – and all of the background laughter and whimpering ceased immediately at the dangerous tone of his voice. Even Professor Lupin, who was lying, pinned to an upturned desk a little away, looked grave. Fred felt Snape's hand shift to reach for something inside his robes – and squirmed uneasily, thinking Snape might be about to curse him.

"I have the antidote here," Snape whispered dangerously. "However, there is only enough here for the Mr Weasleys, Lupin and myself."

Snape opened the bottle (with a little difficulty) and poured a few drops on the sticky film. Fred felt himself slide away, and immediately threw himself from Professor Snape (having quite a good idea of what his fellow classmates were thinking) and found himself in the air. Snape, with admirable foresight, had cast a levitation charm on him. Fred watched, with mounting horror, as Snape freed the struggling Lupin and his brother, George – casting levitation charms on both – and turned once more to address the class, his face now rigid with anger. 

"Never, _ever_, had I seen such a display of idiocy in all my years of teaching at Hogwarts," Snape whispered venomously, his voice shaking with fury. "Disrupting the education of those who _wish to learn_ and succeed… Assault on – not only _two_ professors – but fellow pupils as well, and, by _far_ the worst," he spat, and paused to direct a smouldering stare at the now pale-faced twins "… a total lack of consideration for the real dangers and real physical threats that you have put innocent people through today," – the last remark was directed pointedly to Fred and George, who were floating helplessly about a foot from the floor – their faces now burning with guilt and shame – paraded on show by Snape, and rotating slowly in the air, for everyone to get a good, long look at.

"This is a very serious matter," Snape went on, in barely a whisper. "Very serious."

Then, with a sudden flick of his wand, that made Fred and George flinch visibly – Snape's robes were clean and presentable once more – and he was smiling at Fred and George in a very strange way…

"As punishment for your classmates' idiotic behaviour," Professor Snape said, to the class, but still fixing his burning gaze upon the red-faced Fred and George " you shall all wait where you are for the time being until I return from handing your _classmates_" – the last word was spat venomously – "over to the Headmaster".

There was a sudden outbreak of protestations. Fred and George started to feel slightly sick. Dumbledore? He was going to Dumbledore? That almost certainly meant a letter home…

__

Oh no… What will Mum say?

"SILENCE!" Professor Snape roared, quashing all hint of rebellion. "You will stay where you are… _IN SILENCE_… until I see fit to release you."

With a snap, Snape spun on his heel in mid-air and floated towards the door, which he kicked open angrily, and summoned Professor Lupin, then Fred and George, out of the door with another irritated flick of his wand. As soon as their feet touched the ground, Snape whispered silkily from behind: "…The Headmaster's office. _Now_." 

Feeling decidedly ill with dread, Fred and George started marching dejectedly behind Professor Snape, trailing the sticky, blue sealing solution all the way up to the stone gargoyle that marked the entrance to Dumbledore's office. Professor Lupin walked silently beside them – his robes now sufficiently clean again – and together, they all walked up to the Headmaster's office.

***

It wasn't quite as bad as they'd thought it would be. The talk with Dumbledore included the usual stern lecture that masked his mild amusement at the antics of the Weasley Twins, the eventual informing of their none too surprised Head of House, Professor McGonagall and then the standard detention, then fifty points from Gryffindor (which rankled a bit because they'd just lost the fifty point lead they had had on Slytherin after the Quidditch victory the other weekend) – but all in all, ashamed and red-faced as they were under the penetrating gaze of Albus Dumbledore, they had gotten off pretty lightly.

It was the letter from Mrs Weasley that had hurt them the most:

Fred and George,

I received Dumbledore's letter last night.

Your father and I are deeply, deeply disappointed with your behaviour.

Why, when after all Ginny and Ron went through last year, do you continue to be a burden to your Professors, the school and your Father and I, with your disruptive and unacceptable behaviour? Why can't you be more like Percy, and take a leaf out of his book?

I won't ask you what you were thinking because it's pretty obvious that you weren't thinking about anyone but yourselves. How could you be so selfish? Oh, and don't bother sending an owl to apologise because all of the apologies in the world won't wipe this one from the slate.

If you two put one more toe out of line, we will send for you immediately.

Yours,

Your Deeply Disappointed Mother.

If anyone had noticed the white faces of Fred and George Weasley as they abruptly left the Gryffindor table at breakfast – they didn't show it – and continued to laugh and talk happily as the normally cheery and cheerful Weasley Twins exited the Great Hall, pale and silent.

They had been wandering dejectedly for quite some time now, and had missed Charms, Herbology and Double Potions (for which they were quite thankful). Not a word had been exchanged since before the opening of the letter that Mrs Weasley had sent the night before by owl. About two hours later after missing Herbology – they had stumbled upon an empty, deserted looking classroom, and had wandered in and slumped down on the filthy floor – sending up great clouds of dust into the air of the dark, eerily lit classroom.

Fred and George sat, staring blankly at the floorboards, noticing the joins in the woodwork on the floorboards and where the dust had clogged them up. Fred started picking awkwardly at the joins – dislodging decades worth of dust in a matter of moments – and spoke first.

"I feel awful, George," Fred said hoarsely. "I mean, we could've really hurt everyone yesterday… not to mention being nearly expelled…"

George nodded heavily and swallowed, and said:

"I think we should send an owl to mum and dad to say sorry."

"You heard what mum said, George!" Fred cried, raising his head to look at his twin brother.

"You think she really meant all that?" George asked shakily.

Fred fell silent and looked again at the floor.

"Well, why shouldn't she, after all we've done," he said, eventually. "I wouldn't be surprised if mum and dad disown us…"

Fred trailed off suddenly, and reached over and tapped George on the shoulder.

"Hey, what's that?" he said quizzically. "Look behind you!"

George wiped his brow with his sleeve and, coughing as he dispelled yet more dust into the air, shifted himself around, then frowned, puzzled, as his eyes fell on the great, golden mirror that his identical twin brother had already spotted.

__

"Whoa!" he breathed.

"Must be fake!" Fred said, as both boys rose to their feet, all of a sudden eager to have a look at this grand, beautiful and obviously old mirror.

Fred and George reached the mirror simultaneously (as twins tend to do) and stood there, together, standing shoulder-to-shoulder and wearing identical, puzzled, frowns. They both started to walk around the mirror, running enquiring hands over the surface – checking for any secret compartments or hidden traps, and when they found nothing – they walked round to the front once more and stood, again, before the mirror.

"Well, I'm beaten," George said, with a frown. "Wonder what this thing actually does?"

Suddenly, as if in answer to George's question, the reflections of the Weasley Twins disappeared, then reappeared smokily into view, like rising wisps of fog on a clear, cold, winter's morning – and the twins gasped with fright as they saw the reflection of their mother appear behind them.

Fred and George jumped about a foot in the air and whirled round - eyes wide and faces pale – ready to beg for mercy.

"We're sorry, Mum, we were just…" Fred began quickly, before he turned to find that there was no one there.

They both turned to each other, then back to where their mother should have been standing, then once again – to the Mirror.

Mrs Weasley was, apparently, standing behind them both – well, in the mirror image, anyway – and she was looking down upon Fred and George with a loving expression. Suddenly, the image changed, and she scooped up both of her sons (who were a bit bigger than her) in a tight, bear hug – practically strangling the twins with love and affection.

__

"What the hell…?" Fred breathed, now staring intently at the image in the mirror and secretly feeling a little sad and not a little guilty about what he had caused his mother to go through.

"Fred…" George said slowly, unable to take his eyes from the mirror, and his voice a little shaky with emotion. "Do you think this mirror shows the future?"

Fred looked at the image of his mother once again beaming down proudly at her sons, and then turned to his brother, his eyes watering a little – but his voice steady.

"How can it?" Fred replied, after a long pause. "Mum is already proud of us." 

George smiled, and pulled his brother into a strong embrace.

"Come on," he whispered hoarsely. "Let's get out of here. We've got a lot of planning to do."

"What do you mean?" Fred asked slyly, as both brothers pulled back – grinning from ear to ear.

"Well, we've got to get Snape back for that public humiliation the other day, now, haven't we?" George replied, his eyes glittering with mischief.

"Course we have," Fred said, "and it's going to be even better than the last time – and it'll have the added bonus of not being caught this time!"

George slapped Fred on the back jovially.

"Well, let's go then!" he roared. "Race you back to the Common Room!"


	7. Draco Malfoy

What Would You See?

A Series of Short Stories by Ada Kensington

(Warning: all "Fluffy Draco" fans beware… This is a very dark portrayal of Malfoy the Younger, involving a rather harsh scene with Malfoy the Elder, though it's not that severe. The rating is PG-13, after all. Also, I'm adhering strictly to canon, in the fact that Draco doesn't really like Hermione much, though I'm sure that won't bother the most hardcore of Draco-fans. Enjoy!)

***

The normally cold and pale faced son of the highly feared and esteemed Lucius Malfoy the patriarch of the old, pureblood, Slytherin family, who were famed for their coldness and composure was flushed scarlet and boiling with rage.

His thin, blue-veined hands were wringing each other crushingly tightly drawing blood from deep scratches caused by his ragged, blue-grey nails, that ran smooth, dark and rich spattering softly onto the cold, stone floor of the Slytherin Common Room. He was rocking back and forth, swaying ever so slightly, with his beautiful ash-blonde hair that he had inherited from his father, flying wildly over his face and his eyes; his cold, grey, Malfoy eyes were burning with hatred and fury staring, glassily and unseeing, into the madly flickering flames of the massive, serpent-adorned, stone fireplace of the Slytherin Common Room.

__

Humiliated... Humiliated by a disgusting, ugly, buck-toothed, Mudblood, and her perfect Potter... famous Harry Potter... and his faithful dog, Weasley...

The sole heir to the extensive Malfoy fortune sat, at three o'clock in the morning, alone all alone in the Slytherin Common Room.

__

How dare you humiliate me, you filthy little Mudblood...

His face still stung from where she had hit him.

"How dare you humiliate me?" he spoke aloud now, his voice shaking with anger, and his hands still twisting and writhing in blood. "_HOW DARE YOU?"_

Suddenly, there was a click from the door that made him jump. Whirling around his face still beetroot red and his hair even wilder than before he found himself staring furiously at his Head of House, who was standing upon the threshold of the common room with his wand lit in his pale, thin hands and wearing a faintly annoyed but exhausted expression.

"Stop your muttering, Mr. Malfoy, and get back to bed," Professor Snape snapped wearily. "I will tell you once, and once only. You have five minutes."

Snape turned on his heel and strode out leaving the bitterly sneering Malfoy sitting on the green, Slytherin sofa next to the fireplace the flickering light and shadows dancing over his stony face, which was gradually starting to twitch with anger. He whirled round once more to face the fireplace, and sank down heavily on the sofa, which emitted a soft, expulsion of air as he forced himself amongst the silver and black cushions.

It was only then that he noticed the blood.

He didn't really care, however, and after healing his cuts as best as he was able, he laughed derisively at the thought of what the others would think of the small pool of blood that was spreading slowly out under the table of the common room. They'd think it a good mystery with a good bit of entertainment and intrigue enough to satisfy their morbid curiosity.

"Well, let them be entertained," smirked the youngest of the Malfoys, as he stepped purposefully over the small puddle of blood now turning thick and dark, and congealing on the cold, stone floor.

"Sod, Snape," he said grimly. "I'm going for a walk."

The now considerably more composed Malfoy walked casually over to the door of the subterranean, dungeon common room and turned the handle.

"Yes. I'm off for a walk, Professor," he said aloud calling to the ceiling with a mocking laugh. "To clear my head, Professor, of the Potters and Grangers and Weasleys of this world! Now, wouldn't that be nice?" he continued, his pale grey eyes now dancing with malice. "No more Potter, no more Granger and no more Weasley!"

Malfoy paused, mockingly, and looked up at the ceiling once more, and continued:

"What was that, Professor? You're asleep? Oh, I am sorry! Guess you don't mind if I go for my little walk then, eh?"

With that, the proud and arrogant son of the infamous Lucius Malfoy swept out of the Slytherin Common Room, up and out of the dungeons and out into the sleeping, deserted castle of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

* * *

"Draco" called his father's cold and unreadable voice. "I wish to see you in my study."

Young Draco, upon hearing his father's voice echo magically through the cold and extensive network of corridors within Malfoy Manor, carefully laid down his book with a sigh. Irritably, he swung his legs off of his bed and onto the lush, dark-green carpeted floor of his lavish and large bedroom, and with his face grim and set he started off towards his father's "study".

Lucius had never summoned him to his study in order to give him good news so Draco prepared himself for the worst, and when he reached the large, mahogany doors of Lucius's study, he raised a pale, thin hand to the silver, serpent, door knocker and gave three short, loud and sharper than necessary raps on the door.

"Enter," his father drawled, his voice drifting lazily through the doors.

Draco steeled himself, and throwing back his head and straightening his narrow shoulders, he swept into his father's study, looking him insolently in the eye and stood there with his head cocked to one side and an impatient sneer twisting his porcelain features.

"What do you want?" Draco asked calmly, folding his arms. "I was reading"

"...and so you should be," his father said interrupting Draco with the same maddeningly cool tone rising from his great, high backed, chair and pacing round to the front of his huge, elaborately carved, mahogany desk - caressing the varnished woodwork, with a pale, thin, blue-veined hand. "So you should be…"

Draco could feel his insides churning with mortification and anger. His cheeks were flushing crimson and he could feel the heat rising already but he couldn't be weak. Not in front of him. _He could not show weakness…_

"I have no idea what you're babbling on about, _Lucius_," Draco drawled coldly putting a slight venomous edge to the last word. "So, if you don't mind--"

Lucius Malfoy's eyes flashed and he instantly reached for his wand. With a searing flash of scarlet, Draco felt the curse hit him like the upswing of a sledgehammer. It lifted him off of his feet, and with a sickening thud, he hit a bookcase, scattering grimoires and dark arts compendiums everywhere and landed upon the hard, flagstone floor rolling helplessly for a moment before coming to rest near the doors in a heap of ash blonde hair. Draco heard his father's rapid footsteps advancing to where he laid, spread-eagled, on the floor, with rising panic and dread. He tried frantically to get up but his body, wracked with injury, would not let him.

__

He's going to kill me this time for sure… The crack-brained, fool is going to kill me…

Lucius Malfoy knelt down heavily on one knee by his injured son and grabbed a large handful of his soft, blonde hair, and wrenched Draco's head up brutally. Lucius's face was as porcelain and as masked as ever, but a corner of his mouth was twitching violently, which betrayed his fury, as he stared stonily into his own grey eyes that he had given to his young son, Draco. 

With a small whimper of pain, Draco felt his head being jerked closer to his father's, as his father whispered venomously into his ear:

"_How could a Mudblood_," Lucius whispered, spitting out the last word with disgust, _"beat the son of a Malfoy in every subject taught at a wizarding school which they have attended for generations, for three consecutive years in a row?"_

"She's a boring, Mudblood, know-it-all" Draco choked, feeling his father breathing down his neck as his grip tightened on Draco's hair. "_andshe'sneveroutofthelibrary_," he gasped, as his father abruptly jerked his neck once again. "_But I swear, I swear_," he choked his voice rising with the pain, "_I swear that next year I'll try harder. Next year I'll beat that filthy, little Mudblood! I promise! Next year! Next year!_" he cried, as his father let go of his hair and slammed his head to the ground.

Lucius Malfoy rose once more and paced the length of his study returning to his chair behind his expansive, mahogany desk. Sitting down casually, as if nothing had happened, he picked up a sleek, coal-black, feather quill and resumed his writing.

"I shall expect to hear glowing reports from the old fool about you, Draco - especially in your Dark Arts," Lucius said, coldly immersed in his writing. "Now, get out of my sight."

Draco rose shakily to his feet. His face burned. His hands curled into fists. His hair was flying wildly over his flushed face - and his eyes were glaring at his cold, arrogant, fool of a father with a deep hatred, which bordered on pure and utter loathing. Draco pulled himself up and swept out of his father's "study" without a backward glance.

__

Make a fool out of me, would you, you sick, twisted…? Well, one day… One day, Lucius we'll see We'll see if we can't wipe that smug look from your arrogant face…

* * *

That is why, when Malfoy stepped cautiously in front of the ancient and powerful Mirror of Erised, he did not see himself catching the Snitch before Harry Potter, or gaining higher marks than Hermione Granger in a test. He saw himself standing, looking a bit older than he was now, with his wand pressed painfully to his father's temple, and his hand around his father's scrawny neck choking him, just like he had choked him all those many, degrading and mortifying times at the manor.

But it was his father's expression that Draco was most pleased with. It was a look, as such he had never seen before on his father's smug, contented face. Lucius's wide, grey eyes were nearly popping out with fear, his cold, porcelain face was unusually pale, with large beads of sweat running down his sickly, snow-white skin. He was shaking visibly, and to Draco's pleasure seemed to be pleading with him.

It was fear. 

Pure fear - unadulterated in all its simplicity and glory. He wanted his father to fear him wanted him to respect him, revere him, and love him, and loathe him.

Draco closed his eyes lazily and smiled revelling in the image before him.

"That's it, Lucius," Draco said aloud, whispering through his own private, vindictive pleasures. "Plead, whine, beg for mercy you murderous lunatic, for you shan't be getting any."

Draco had been staring at the mirror for over an hour now, and planned to sit and stare at it for a few more hours before returning to his dormitory. He was convinced that the mirror whatever it was showed the future, as he was completely convinced and had been for a long time that one day, he would show his father just what it meant to be a Malfoy.

__

One day, I'm going to wipe that arrogant sneer from your face, Lucius and after I do that, I'm going to kill you. That'll teach you to make a fool out of me, you sick, twisted--

Draco suddenly had a thought a rather twisted thought, but it seemed ironically true nonetheless and he laughed softly to himself.

__

Hmmm… it seems as though the student has learned from the master. Well then, Father, we should all be thankful for irony now, shouldn't we?

* * *

  
After a little while longer staring at the wonderful image the sun penetrated the windows of the deserted classroom, and the dark, wood floorboards glowed warmly with the light of the dawn. Draco still very much wide-awake kicked away the dust sheet that he had sat on for the past two hours and decided to venture back down into the dormitory. Mrs. Norris and Filch would be long gone by now, and it would be safe to walk back down to the dungeons and slip, soundlessly, back into bed.

And that's exactly what he did for no one really noticed him leave. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. Percy Weasley

What Would You See?

A Series of Short Stories by Ada Kensington

Burning… Oh God, his ears were burning. He could feel the blood rush scarlet to his pale cheeks - like a drop of ink delicately dotted into a glass of clear water - setting his fair skinned, freckled face aflame and clashing violently with his vibrant, fiery red hair. The whole effect would put the detached (and, if applicable, somewhat poetic) observer in mind of the setting sun in its final crawling stages of descent, with the myriad shades, ranging from deep, throbbing crimsons to almost luminous, fiery oranges and to thin, lighting streaks of retina-melting gold. However, to the immediate observer, it was very clear that Percy Weasley was furious.

So infuriated was he, that he could barely speak. Blustering, stuttering and mouthing indignantly - he felt as though his blood was hammering through his veins. His face felt like it was on fire - his skin prickling unpleasantly, and his breathing pace was quickening as he stared, incensed, at the smugly sneering, pale faced, arrogant second year before him. 

Usually, he was extremely adept at dealing with cases of insolence, but they were never normally this… personal. When something truly touched a nerve, he floundered, and it mostly only served to satisfy his tormentor.

"You want to show a bit more respect to a school prefect!" Percy said - his throat thick and clotted with wrath, making his voice seem small and insignificant. "I don't like your attitude!"

The object of his wrath merely sneered coldly, with a derisive smile playing about his cold, pale eyes, and - clearly noting the scarlet face, the shaky voice and the twitching fingers - he smirked, and swept off down the corridor, motioning his two hulking thugs to follow him, soon disappearing soundlessly from Percy Weasley's slowly reddening field of vision.

__

Arrogant, egotistical, haughty, little …

Percy remained there awhile, still shaking with anger and knowing full well that he could certainly not return to the Common Room in this state. He would never live it down. Realising that he had to calm himself down, he took a few deep, soothing breaths. 

Satisfied that he had calmed himself down sufficiently, Percy drew a few final deep, soothing breaths, tossed his back his head, and strode off purposefully in the direction of the Gryffindor Common Room - intending to gain a maximum possible distance from anything that had the potential to rile him. A second year? Succeeding in riling up one of the most unflappable prefects in the history of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? No! It could not be possible! It just couldn't be!

__

And yet… it was.

Generally, Percy Weasley treated all lower school pupils equally - adopting an indifferent stance to each. However, when the name Malfoy first arose two years ago during the process of his brother Ron's sorting - it was a name that he could not bring himself to ignore.

Malfoy. A name his father frequently uttered through gritted teeth and venomous tongue. A name that would always deliver evil tidings and become the precursor to events somewhat more socially universal. A name that would incite worry, anger and strife amongst the older members of the Weasley family - namely his father, his mother and his two elder brothers, Bill and Charlie.

When he was younger, he remembered vividly, the first time he had ever heard the name mentioned. He recalled having sneaked downstairs, his mop of curly red hair falling floppily over his sleep-strained eyes, padding cautiously over to the larder to quickly sneak a few deliciously forbidden sweets. Then, he heard voices, raised voices, filtering through the closed door into the living room. His father and his mother.

Curious, he crept over to the door and opened it a crack - warm light streaming in to fill his tired eyes as they peeped warily into the living room. His father sat forward in his armchair, his head in his hands, across from his mother, who was sitting on a battered couch, holding a gently stirring bundle of soft, cotton blankets that was his baby brother. Her eyes were wide and her mouth tight-lipped and her face was strangely pale. Percy knew that it was only when she was upset that she looked like that. He was worried, and wanted to go in and see if she was alright - and was just about to - when suddenly, his father rose from his armchair and smashed the wall with a strong, unyielding fist - letting out a great, long, terrible roar of anger and despair.

__

"MALFOY! HOW MANY MORE LIVES WOULD YOU WASTE? CURSE YOU! CURSE YOU!…"

Young Percy immediately turned and fled. For he had never seen his father so angry before. Frightened and bewildered, he ran sobbing to his room - slamming the door - and lay there under his blankets, all the while wondering what this Malfoy was that could have caused his father to be so angry.

Now that he was old enough to know, Percy had been properly introduced to the ways of the Malfoy clan during the previous year's summer holidays when Bill and Charlie were home. His father had pulled him aside, after their little talk, and had laid a hand on his shoulder. He had told him that Lucius Malfoy's son was starting Hogwarts with Ron and that he was extremely worried about him. As Ron's eldest brother at Hogwarts, it was his job to look out for him and make sure he was safe. Easy, thought Percy. How much trouble could one eleven year old be? The answer, however, was much, much more than he could imagine.

The youngest spawn of the infamous Malfoy clan seemed to have all of their peculiarities already ingrained at the tender age of eleven. From what he had heard from his father of Lucius Malfoy, the boy seemed destined to follow; - exhibiting the same pompous, arrogant, vanity that characterised the narrow-minded bigots of the increasing ranks of dark wizards and witches. Showing the same degree of inherent malevolence that was the precursor to innocent lives lost. Displaying clearly, the same blind, entrenched, frighteningly self-righteous beliefs that made them unable to free their minds and escape the ever-thickening web of the dark arts - until they were so completely brainwashed that they could not, or did not wish to escape…

In his heart of hearts, Percy pitied young Draco - fearing what he knew he would eventually become. But he realised that he was now too far gone - and that not even Albus Dumbledore could save him now. Now, his main priorities were making sure that he did not become a danger to Ron and Ginny - ensuring that they were treated with the respect they deserved.

His father had spent a long time unconsciously fighting for the respect he felt his family deserved. Yes, they were poor - but they were a valuable asset to the wizarding community as a whole, and also a powerful ally for the side of good. Everyone liked them, yes. But when the Malfoys decided to intervene - it was always fear of them, the fear of their power, their wealth and the influence they could exert, that always took precedence over the Weasley's time and again.

__

… and he was sick of it!

He was sick of how the Malfoys seemed to serve as a foil to his family at every turn. Sick of how, if evil had money and power, that it could walk all over what was clearly good. Sick of having to see Draco Malfoy sneering and laughing at him every day, when he did not even know him - only knowing him as a poor, insignificant, Weasley…

Suddenly, Percy's train of thought shuddered to an abrupt halt. He stopped in mid stride and glanced around only to have unfamiliar portraits and surroundings rise up most unwelcomingly to meet him.

__

Stairs must've changed… don't panic. You passed the Staff Room a while ago. You can just double back… Yes. Just double back…

Percy turned round to retrace his steps to the Staff Room - and ran smack into a furiously swirling wall of black, which sent him sprawling to the hard, unyielding, mahogany floor heavily - winding him - and forcing the cloud of black spinning around ungainly in the opposite direction.

As Percy frantically tried to get his breath back, the swirling black was first to recover, and made its unsteady way over to the prostrate Percy.

"Are you alright there, Weasley? Weasley! Are you alright?"

It was Professor Snape, with his sallow face unusually flushed and his greasy black hair strewn wildly over his fathomless, black eyes.

"Weasley?" Snape snapped.

Percy mumbled in the affirmative, and felt a cold hand grasp his with a thin, iron grip - pulling him upright - and he gasped as a sharp, stabbing pain drove deep into his wrist, making him wince.

"What's the matter, Weasley?" asked Snape, glancing suspiciously at Percy's injured wrist.

"I think I've sprained my wrist, Professor," Percy answered, grasping his wrist and grimacing.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Hospital wing, Weasley."

"But, Professor, I was going back to the Common Room. I have a report that I'd like to get a head start on…"

"Hospital wing, Weasley, or I'll start deducting points for not watching where you were going. I will brook no refusal," Professor Snape said finally. "Otherwise," he added, with a grim smile, "you may be left vulnerable to the misplaced attentions of _others_."

Percy nodded, knowing full well what Snape meant. Lockhart hadn't been at Hogwarts long - only one term - yet he had already gained a widespread reputation amongst the senior school for being notoriously incompetent. They were practically teaching themselves DADA.

"Of course, Professor," Percy said.

Snape nodded, and went to leave - but he turned back to Percy and said: "Careful, Weasley. The stairs have changed. I don't want to have to help Filch scrape Gryffindor guts from the walls."

Then, without a backward glance, Snape turned on his heel and swept off silently down the corridor - his black robes once more billowing out behind him as he walked.

__

Wonder what that was all about? Percy thought absently, massaging his throbbing wrist, as he too, went his separate road, winding his own way through the paths he thought he knew so well. Snape had seemed awfully flustered.

__

Maybe he's just had a run-in with an arrogant, pushy, little, brat, second year too…

Percy rounded another corner.

__

Wouldn't be at all surprised, with total lack of respect for their betters, these days…

Percy stopped short.

The path forked. 

One corridor led to the Hospital Wing. The other led somewhere unknown. He wasn't sure which was which, or which one he should take. Uncertainty momentarily seized him, and his eyes darted swiftly from one corridor to the other. All Hogwarts corridors looked pretty similar. 

__

You're a Prefect. You should know what path to take…

But he wasn't quite sure. He hated feeling unsure - hated feeling even the least bit uncertain about anything. All his life, Percy Weasley had planned and prepared - knowing more or less everything that was going to come up because he had had a hand in designing the outcome - whether it was by studying, or just plain scheduling. Now, he had no time to premeditate the outcome. The choice was before him - and he had to choose wisely, or be lost. For Hogwarts, for all its good, was a vast and sometimes unpredictable place and could be pretty dangerous if not treaded carefully…

__

But he was a Prefect - and should have known what path to take.

After only a moment's further hesitation, Percy took the left fork, and made his way down the long, winding corridor - quietly hoping that he had chosen the right one.

***

Eventually, he realised that he had chosen the wrong path. Percy had emerged from another non-descript corridor into another, then another, then another - until finding himself totally lost in the old, deserted corner of the building that he found himself in now.

Cobwebs hung low from the ceiling, and a fine, thick coat of dust quilted everything surrounding him - muffling his cautious steps and muting all sound. But the air itself seemed to hold a softly whispering hush - like hundreds of distant voices hissing, sighing and murmuring all at once. Some of them seemed to be singing…

Percy began to be a little afraid. He drew his wand, although he knew not why. For what could a wand do against something that, quite possibly, was not really there? Some of the voices he could handle. The singing voices, as he walked further down the darkening corridor sounded a low, lulling melody, that seemed to put his mind at ease. 

Then, almost as suddenly as it began, the voices ceased and a thick, oppressive silence resumed their place - weighing heavily on the air. 

The quiet was somehow worse.

To his right, was a door, and it was opened a crack. Percy stood stock still - his heart hammering in his chest - the silence suffocating - his eyes fixed immovably on the dark gap that separated himself from the darkness of the room beyond. A chill breeze suddenly drifted through the air, opening the crack in the door a little wider.

__

For Merlin's sake, Percy, it's only an old classroom…

The chill breeze caused the hinges on the door to creak softly, as the door was gently forced open a little more…

__

Only an old classroom…

The wind gathered speed, disturbing the dust, making it swirl around his feet. The door opened further, and he could very nearly see inside. 

__

Was there light in there?

Percy edged cautiously towards the door, and gently nudged it open with a trembling hand - stepping over the threshold and peering, wide-eyed, around the door.

There was nothing there. 

It was, in fact, only an old classroom. Piles of old chairs stacked high - riddled and rotting with woodworm, more strange, silvery cobwebs stretching from one lofty rafter to another, and the dust - more suffocating and smothering than ever. A strange, eerie light filtered in through the filthy windows - lending the room an ethereal hue. It seemed to Percy as though he had just crossed over into another world…

Absently, he bent down and traced a delicate, little spiral with a thin finger - its outline bold and clear in the dark floorboards against its backdrop of grey-white powder. It was rather pretty, really - and when he had finished, he stood up.

It was only then that he saw it. 

A great, glittering, gold colossus - untarnished and untouched by anything that seemed to have affected all else in the room - stood, lurking. Half in shadows, and half in light, glints of spectral luminescence wisped and curled mistily around the entity - reflecting from the brilliantly shimmering surfaces in all directions.

__

It was breathtaking.

Percy glided slowly across the floor - transfixed by the eerie, unsettling beauty of the object in front of him - and stretched out a pale hand to touch the softly shimmering glass. The glass felt pleasantly cool and smooth under his fingertips - like ice - and he ran his hands over the surface several times before his reflection rose mistily up from the endless depths of the mirror to greet him.

For a moment, Percy gazed upon a slightly blurred image of himself carefully withdrawing a hand from the pane of glass, then, in a swirling mist of smoky grey, his reflection rearranged itself into something completely different.

Now, Percy Weasley beheld himself, clearly a few years older. He was wearing an official looking uniform and working calmly behind a great, oak desk - sending out orders and seeing that those orders were carried out. People scurried in and out, nodding and smiling and doing their jobs, while he carried on working. He was an official. Firm, but fair, and the best at his job - a dedicated and efficient executive. No longer the poor but brilliant Weasley son - but the revered and respected professional. He had lifted himself into acquiring the respect and esteem that the Weasley family - his family - clearly deserved.

Percy stared at the image for quite a while before the growing pain in his wrist reminded him once again of his physical self. He looked away for only a moment to tend to his wrist - and the image disappeared - leaving nothing to behold but the cold pane of glass.

He stood there, staring now at the floorboards, holding his wrist in the shadow of the great mirror.

He realised now that before him, was no ordinary mirror - but he could not discern its purpose. The only inkling he had, was that it must show something that you, and you alone would know - for he had made up his mind for a long time now, that he would be the one to lift his family up higher than the Malfoys and to gain wizarding society's unconditional respect - no matter how hard he had to work to achieve it - no matter what he had to do to achieve it.

The pain in his wrist was now flooding his mind - pushing the previous events to the background.

__

Snape was right… I had better get along to the hospital wing…

***

Percy Weasley made his way out of the room and out along the corridor once again - trying to retrace his steps in order to get to the hospital wing - treading back along the path that had lead him to the unknown. However, it was harder than it looked - for all Hogwarts corridors looked similar. Eventually, Percy found the place where he had started and finally reached the hospital wing. It took him quite a while, what with the detour - but he got there in the end.


	9. Neville Longbottom

"What Would You See?"

A Series of Short Stories by Ada Kensington

Every Summer, before returning to Hogwarts, Neville had to visit St. Mungos with his grandmother.

He dreaded it.

At the reception desk, the nurse offered him a kind, sympathetic smile as his grandmother filled out the visitor's book. He couldn't find it in him to return it.

The young nurse then directed them to a seat in the bright, comfortable and cheery little waiting room next door, where his grandmother slumped, exhausted, into one of the squashy armchairs and picked up an old, battered copy of "Witch Weekly," riffling through the dog-eared pages absently with red-rimmed eyes. Not a word passed between them. In the armchair opposite, Neville sat, in silence, clutching at a bunch of snow-white lilies his grandmother had insisted she buy for him at a stall in Diagon Alley just outside the hospital. Now, they were a little bruised and weeping at the ends of the stalks, where he had unwittingly crushed them, whilst staring intently at a patch of warm, peach wall behind his grandmother's head.

Apparently, they had been his mother's favourite flowers.

Then, after an indeterminable length, the kindly, soft-spoken, Dr Patil, popped his handsome head round the waiting room door and inquired, with a raised eyebrow:

"Longbottom?"

His grandmother gently put her magazine upon the table, gathered up her big, red handbag rather awkwardly and rose to shake Dr Patil's hand and nod in the affirmative. Dr Patil then turned and smiled soberly at Neville, who had risen shakily to his feet, still clutching at the lilies, and asked him softly:

"Hello, Neville. How is Hogwarts?"

Neville mumbled something about how badly he had done at Potions in the last year, scoring a miserable zero percent in his final exam, and Dr Patil shrugged good-naturedly and replied:

"Well, we can't be good at everything, can we? Parvati has told me that you do extremely well in Herbology."

Normally, Neville would have cheered up a little with this rare recognition of his talent in his favourite subject , but he just shrugged and said nothing. The silence continued for just long enough to become a little uncomfortable. It was clear that Neville was going to say no-more on the subject and that Mrs Longbottom was not about to add to the conversation, so Dr Patil smiled and asked:

"Are you ready?"

Neville's grandmother nodded and let Dr Patil lead the way, although they both knew the corridors by heart. Their escort was merely a matter of security and protocol.

The corridors were always cheerful, especially in and around the children's ward, where Neville would look in occasionally as he passed to see walls covered with thick, blobby paintings and bright murals and colourful bedclothes, scattered toys and picture books. Some children waved to him, but he could manage no more than a watery grimace. The windows were wide open, letting in a cool, refreshing breeze and a gentle sunlight played upon the gleaming floors and walls. There were always bustling nurses and striding doctors going to and from wards with busy haste. 

The corridors were always cheerful. Yet, there was something about them that made Neville want to turn and run - run until he vomited from the pain, until dark bubbles burst in front of his eyes, until his lungs collapsed, until his heart stopped. There was something a little subdued, something melancholic behind the cheerful façade, the clinical tang that permeated all was the acrid smell of sickness, pain and death.

They got about halfway to their destination, when his grandmother took his hand. Neville was about to open his mouth to tell her that he was alright, when he saw the desperate look on her wizened face and his heart sank. This was the strong, upright, confident, capable woman upon whom he looked to for guidance and support… and this time, she needed him. She needed him for comfort and support. 

Neville began to feel sick…

As Dr Patil strode onward, the light became less and the smell became stronger. The corridors here were much less cheerful. His grandmother started to cry, and Neville felt his eyes fill up with unshed tears, but he held them back bravely for her, and squeezed her hand that little bit tighter so that she would know that he was here for her.

When they came at last to the Psychological Trauma ward, Dr Patil stepped smartly in front of the grey door. It had no handle. With a complicated flourish of his wand, Dr Patil muttered the spell that would evaporate the door and grant Neville and his grandmother passage to the cold, dimly-lit ward within. 

Dr Patil escorted them swiftly down the long, hushed corridor. The nurses and doctors in this ward were fewer and were more haggard and weary. On Neville's either side were the large, square, magically-reinforced glass windows that were, at the moment, opaque and grey as a sheet of cold steel. Behind each contained a small, bare, square room and one of the unfortunate inhabitants of the ward. The windows were, mercifully, soundproofed, but he always imagined he could hear, just on the edge of his hearing, the faint whimpers, the sobbing and the screaming within.

Neville's fists gripped the now limp and bleeding lilies unfeelingly, trembling, as they neared the glass window that would allow him to see his mother and father. His grandmother had stopped crying and was now wringing his hand in silent apprehension. 

Slowing gradually and coming to an eventual halt to the right of a window in front of another similar blank grey door, Dr Patil waved his wand and it dissipated into hundreds of thousands of tiny glittering particles. He stepped through the space where the door had been and motioned for Neville and his grandmother to step through. 

Neville's normally rosy face paled visibly, a glossy sheen on cold sweat coated his forehead. His stomach churned, making him nauseous, and his heart started to hammer rapidly against his heaving chest. Trembling, he took a few cautious steps forward - each footfall sounding as loud and hollow as a lead block thumping on granite - with his grandmother in one hand and the bruised lilies in the other, already knowing with a hollow certainty what he would find.

Lying, curled up and shivering, on two Spartan, iron, single beds lit by a single naked light bulb, were his mother and father. Pale and emaciated, their thin limp hair splayed out upon their pillows with large clumps missing where they had torn it out in their delirium, their faces slack and drooling gently, their calcareous fingers blue and bandaged, behind their vacant, glazed gazes, the memories of their torture were trapped - playing over and over in an inescapable cycle of pain and suffering.

When Neville entered, they never even glanced in their direction - bound internally to their own private torment - completely oblivious to the outside world… and to their own son. 

Neville dropped his grandmother's hand and stood there, numb, as he always did. 

The sight of his parents lying there never ceased to render him to a quivering wreck inside. He didn't dare look at his grandmother in case the sight of her sent him toppling over the edge, he just stood there, with the lilies hanging in one lifeless hand. He always thought that it must be worse for her… seeing her once gentle, strong, good-natured and intelligent son and his sharp, quick and beautiful wife reduced to the tragic, gibbering, strangers before him. 

Neville had never really known his parents. At the time of their torture by the Dark Lord, Voldemort, they were already far gone. By the time he was old enough to visit them, they were far beyond aid. The doctors had said that their minds were ruined and could never be repaired. Nevertheless, Neville insisted that he continue to visit them, to keep their memory alive, and came every year with a small gift, no matter how much it hurt him.

Neville started to walk over to his parents - his throat thick and his eyes tearing - proffering the mangled bunch of lilies.

"H-here Mum. I've b-brought you some flowers…"

His mother said nothing, her wide, blue eyes staring blankly into space, her dressed hands clutching at her bedclothes.

When his mother did not respond, he knelt down beside her, smiling, and stretched over and lay the flowers at the foot of her bed.

"I-I'm doing quite well at school," he said quietly. "P-Professor Sprout says I'm really coming on. I got the second highest marks in the year - well… second to Hermione, of course, she's top of the year in everything. She's really clever. I think she'll be head girl someday. Potions isn't too good, though," he whispered tearfully, "I failed my last exam. Professor Snape gave me zero percent. I-I'm so afraid of him. Whenever I go into his class, I can't think… I keep feeling like he's watching me over my shoulder… watching for every mistake I make so that he can take points from Gryffindor. Practically all the points taken from Gryffindor are because of me," Neville continued sadly. "I'm so useless and clumsy. If it wasn't for Harry, then we'd never win the House Cup at all…" he trailed off and then began again, his voice choking with tears "I wish you were both here, so that you and gran could both come up to the school to defend me. I miss you…" Neville said, reaching out and placing a gentle hand upon his mother's shoulder.

Suddenly, with the touch, his mother flinched and her eyes started rolling wildly in their sockets. She began shriek and kick and thrash and claw at the bandages which stopped her from harming herself. Neville froze with fear and his mother's hand shot out and gripped him by the collar and pulled her terrified son sharply to her heaving chest, shaking him violently, her gaze focused on a dark point beyond reach and comprehension, screaming and screaming and screaming and screaming…

__

Mum… Please… Mum… It's me, Neville… Neville! he could hear himself crying desperately, as his mother writhed in her private agony, clutching his collar tighter and tighter… 

His head was spinning. He could hear his grandmother crying in the background and the pounding of running footsteps and Dr Patil's frantic yells as several people rushed towards him - and he felt two pairs of strong hands lift and separate him from his shrieking mother. Neville was dragged, bodily, away from the bed and was dumped onto the floor as the two doctors ran to join their colleagues at his mother's bedside. His grandmother knelt on the floor beside him and he fell into his grandmother's arms and wept as he watched his mother being restrained - flailing and jolting and scratching and tangling herself up in the bedclothes. Suddenly, she let out a ghastly scream that rose up and up and up… and in the bed next to her, her husband began to shriek…

"You'd better leave," Dr Patil called out, breathlessly. "You and your grandson are not safe here at the moment, Mrs Longbottom. You can wait, if you wish, but we're not sure if will be able to calm them down…" he trailed off as a frail hand caught him across the face.

Neville's grandmother nodded, with tears in her eyes, and wrapped her sobbing grandson's arm round her shoulder. 

"Come on, son," she said, her low voice cracking with emotion. "Let's get you home."

Rising, Neville was lifted out of the room by his grandmother as she staggered blindly through the grey corridor. Behind him, voices screaming _"stupefy" _echoed down the passageway, and continued to ring in his ears until they were emerged into the daylight from the hospital where Neville slumped to the floor in a dead faint.

***

Neville opened his eyes and jerked upright, his chest heaving and his hair matted to his forehead in a cold sweat. 

__

It was just a dream… Just a dream…

Reaching out, Neville opened his curtains and moonlight streamed into the room from the large, North Tower window, shining upon the beds of his dorm-mates, Harry, Ron, Seamus and Dean. From what his ears told him, they were still fast asleep.

Sighing, Neville swung his feet over the edge of the bed and slipped his feet into his new pair of tartan slippers his grandmother had sent him and rubbing his tired eyes, he rose and silently crossed the dormitory, opening the door and stepping outside to the cold, stone staircase and shutting it with a barely audible _click_, Neville wandered down to the Common Room alone. When he noticed that all the fires had been put out, he decided to go out for a little walk. If any teachers or Filch noticed him, he'd just explain to them that he couldn't sleep. 

It usually worked.

__

… though he had never met Snape on any of his walks.

The thought of Snape made him shiver, but he could not face going back to bed in case the dream began again, and, contrary to popular belief, he was not scared of _everything_. With those thoughts in mind, Neville climbed down the stairs from the Gryffindor Tower and padded away in his tartan slippers - heading off in the general direction of the Great Hall.

***

An hour later, Neville desperately tried the handle of yet another door, and was completely and utterly lost. All the doors he had tried previously had been locked - even the one he had just come through! It had locked itself behind him! If all the doors in this corridor were like this, he could be trapped in here…

__

… and who knew how long it would be before they found him.

Neville moved on, beginning to panic and tried another door and yet another and another and another, and suddenly, to his surprise and relief, the door he had tried when he first entered the corridor creaked open slowly. Frantically, Neville seized upon this unlooked for opportunity, and dashed into the room, wedging a slipper between the doorframe and the door with remarkable foresight. Panting, he leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees, his round face clearly red with exertion even in the shadows of the dark room.

It was then that he saw the mirror.

There were no windows in the room, but the cold, glossy surface of the mirror shone silvery and smoky like a Pensieve, casting an eerie light all the way to the four corners of the room. Wisps of spectral luminescence curled lovingly around the ethereal entity and a strange mist drifted languorously around the great, taloned feet of the glittering, gold frame. An old dust sheet lay, forgotten, upon the floor under the thin cloud that was floating, ever closer, towards Neville. He stared at it, fighting the urge to run as it touched his feet. It was soft and gentle and it felt like there were voices calling to him. Whispering…

Slowly, without knowing why, Neville started towards the mirror. As he walked, the mist receded, until he stood before the mysterious entity which was enshrouded in gently glowing haze of ancient eldritch sorcery.

Suddenly, the churning clouds within the mirror, ceased and within the depths, Neville's reflection emerged and stood before him, complete with his mousy brown hair, his round, good-natured, rosy-cheeked face, his pale blue eyes and his sheepish smile. 

But it wasn't Neville.

Two other shapes emerged from the smoky recesses of the mirror which made Neville's watery-blue eyes widen in wonder. Standing behind him, beaming with pride, were his mother and father as he had seen them in photographs before they had gone. His father, tall and strong and proud, with Neville's round, good-natured face, his mousy-brown hair and his sheepish smile. His mother, small and slim and frail-looking, with ash-blonde hair and his light blue eyes, placed a thin hand upon his shoulder and smiled.

Neville reached out and felt the air behind him. There was nothing there - no-one behind him. Pale tears leaked soundlessly from Neville's sleep-strained eyes. His parents were in St. Mungos, languishing in the Insanity ward for the rest of their lives, however short they might be now. Neville shook his head.

__

This can't be mum and dad…

Then an idea trickled into his already overfull mind.

__

Does this mirror show the future? Were the doctors wrong?

Something above the glass caught his eye, and he tore his gaze away to read the intricately carved inscription curved around the top:

__

"Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi."

Puzzled, Neville's eyes darted back to the glass. His parents were still there, so he had another, longer look at the inscription.

__

Erised stra…? Is how no tyo…? No… I show no…? No… I show… not your face…

"…but your heart's desire!" he whispered, aloud.

Now he knew, and with this moment of sad epiphany, an almost crippling ache of longing and despair began to clutch at his heart. He would never get his parents back, no matter how hard he wished he could. They would remain as strangers to him, until their madness consumed them - taking them away from him forever so that he could never see them again. There was no point anymore. He would never get them back…

Just as Neville was about to resign himself to despair, a glimmering light pierced the gathering darkness.

__

Gran…

Yes… Gran. He still had Gran. She needed him just as much as he needed her. He couldn't stop now. He had to keep on going. He had to keep visiting his parents. He had to keep their memories alive. It meant as much to her as it did to him. 

__

I'll do it for Gran…

With a watery, but determined nod, Neville took one last look at his parents and gave them a wave. 

"I'll be back to see you next summer…" he whispered.

The reflections did not wave, but merely smiled as they watched him tear his gaze away from the mirror and walk silently towards the door, slot his foot into the slipper he wedged into the door and shut the door behind him with a creak. 

Somehow, Neville knew that none of the doors would be locked and that there would be no teachers prowling around. No doors were locked, and he had no bother at all trying to re-trace his steps as there were no teachers to hinder his progress. So when he reached the Gryffindor Tower ten minutes later, he kicked off his slippers and curled up under his thick duvet. In the morning, he would start writing a letter to Gran. From on top of his trunk, there came a small, accusing croak.

"Sorry, Trevor," he said, sleepily. "I just couldn't sleep. G'night…"

Neville reached over and closed his curtains and fell fast asleep - dreaming of home.


	10. Bellatrix Lestrange

"What Would You See?"

a series of short stories by Ada Kensington

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AN: By this time, I have lost all of my regular readers due to lack of updating. I apologise sincerely, and can only hope that this latest installment will be enough to bring me back into all your metaphorical good books. I know this was due to be release last week, but it is a mammoth chapter and took me quite long to write. I hope you all enjoy it, regular readers and new readers alike!

*** 

Frost clings thickly to the bare branches of the many thousands of trees in the Forbidden Forest - their green leaves have long been shed to make way for ice and shadows. A deep blanket of new fallen snow spreads out over the forest floor - deadening all sound but the crunching of the feet of the shadowy figure up ahead, as it trudges through the seemingly endless white. 

Small, shivering hands clasp tightly at the deep hood, drawing the edges inward to shield a delicate, masked face with slender slits for eyes against bitter Midwinter's chill. A billowing, thick, black travelling cloak drapes over, but does not disguise, a painfully thin figure - and the black robes that lie, just visible underneath the travelling cloak, indicate the thin figure as that of a woman's. To look upon, one would expect the perfect picture of frailty and vulnerability - this figure being a lone woman in a place as perilous as the Forbidden Forest.

Not so.

For when one looks a little closer, this woman's posture, the way she holds herself - her gait, her manner - all seem to radiate a certain arrogance, a coldness, a defiance, hatred, and pride. It speaks of a woman who has no fear of what the shadows may hold - because of her unsettling confidence that they can contain nothing worse than the shadows that she holds within…

***

It was becoming painful to breathe, the bitter air burning coldly at her insides, and, although there was no breeze, the chill air had begun to bite, making her skin tingle unpleasantly. 

Twelve years ago, a journey such as this would have posed no problems. However, her term in Azkaban had rendered her seriously out of practise. She wanted to sit down somewhere, in order to get her breath back. 

However, she could not afford to be casually late, so she resolved to keep walking until she had reached their old meeting place. You could never be late. Not when you were meeting him. Gritting her teeth, now determined, she struck off upon a new course which lead her deeper and deeper into the heart of the forest.

After walking on a little further, she came upon a clearing where a gnarled and knotted old yew - whose reach extended sufficiently to leave a small patch of ground around the circumference of the trunk untouched by frost or snow - had been growing steadily for hundreds of years. Her dark eyes darted to and fro. 

__

Are you already here and waiting for me? Hiding in the black shadows, waiting to catch me off my guard?

She smiled, her dark eyes sparkling dangerously through the slits in her hood.

__

It'd be just like him…

But she knew that it was more likely that he was merely late (some things never changed) and confident in her assumption, she sat down underneath the overhanging branches of the ancient yew upon the frozen ground, removed her mask and let down her hood, and as she did so, great, thick, coils of raven hair untangled themselves from their confinement and slithered all the way down her slender back - framing her pale, slightly drawn face, which was (at the moment) flushed with exertion. However, it was her eyes that were undoubtedly her most striking feature - dark eyes with luscious, heavy lids, glittering dangerously with malevolence and defiance. 

Azkaban had robbed her of most of her strength - and her once infamous beauty. She had rotted for twelve years in the bowels of the wizard prison and had become a shadow of her former self. But now that she had returned to the Dark Lord, gradually, she had felt her former strength return, and as she gained confidence, so the malicious sparkle in her eyes returned, and with it, her fervent desire to serve…

Once again, she was Bellatrix Lestrange: most feared of the followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, most faithful of faithful, most favoured servant of the Dark Lord, Voldemort. Cold and beautiful. Dazzling and merciless. Breathtaking, and yet utterly, utterly mad. Fanatic. Murderess. 

__

Adulteress…

Grinning, she leaned back in against the protruding roots of the yew tree, and reached into her thick, winter travelling cloak and extracted from its folds, a thin slip of parchment, which she carefully unfolded and began to peruse for what seemed like the millionth time since she had received it.

Three days ago, she had sent him a letter by owl asking him to meet. She didn't know what had come over her. Possibly, it was nostalgia, the desire to see an old face again, to talk about old times - the good old days. 

She smirked.

__

She had sent him a letter asking him to meet, under the pretence of requesting that they remake their acquaintance with one another - for small talk, and reminiscence - after all, it had been twelve years since they had seen and spoken to one another. 

Even before sending the letter, she had been expecting an outright refusal - hastily dashed off, with his "regrets" and "compliments" and "regards," which she had always utterly detested. Therefore, she was pleasantly surprised when she received on owl the very next day bearing a reply written in his familiar, cramped, spidery hand:

Bella,

Meet me in the Forest on the 12th.

Be there at the old yew around midnight.

Severus.

Normally, she would have laughed. Normally, she wouldn't have even looked twice at such a request before pitching it into the flames. Normally, she would let them come to her - never once putting herself out - after all, she was the one they all so desperately craved…

Lucius, her sister's husband, little Regulus (dear little Regulus) and Antonin Dolohov. The traitor, Igor Karkaroff, Walden Macnair and Evan Rosier and Augustus Wilkes (before they were struck down by that filthy, grizzled, old thief-taker.) Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle and Algernon Rookwood (it was she who had… _persuaded _him to fight for the cause.) Theodore Nott, Virgil Avery, William Travers and Julius Mulciber. Dear Rodolphus, her loving husband, who guarded her so jealously, and darling Rabastan.

She could see it, she could see the lust glittering in their eyes, with the satisfaction of knowing that it was she and she alone who had placed it there…

Initially, not all had looked upon her as an object of desire. However, over the years, she had turned that around. The world of a servant of the Dark Lord was a delicately spun web of corruption, cunning and deceit - and if she could use her great beauty to spin her own web in order to ensnare those within the inner circle, then so much the better.

The result was that she had nearly all of the members of the inner circle hanging on her every glance… her every word… her every night she chose to spend in their beds…

All, however, except him. He alone had not succumbed to her will. A last unconquered fortress unattainable to the besieging forces of Bellatrix Lestrange. Little did she realise, from that fateful night so long ago, she had begun a game that would last for twenty years…

__

"Incendio…"

Grinning, she watched the parchment burst into flames, the edges curling up and blackening, the embers whizzing up into the air in a flurry of red and gold before drifting, pale and listless, to the dirt.

Tonight, it would all end. Tonight, she would finally walk away, the victor. Tonight, that which she had so patiently waited for, for almost twenty years would finally come to pass. 

The game was almost over…

***

They were in their final year at Hogwarts. Seven years they had all been doing this - meeting at the "study room." The "study room," was an empty classroom they had occupied the past seven years in order to study the fruits of their latest excursions to the Restricted Section to prepare them for the years to come. It was also a place where they could tutor each other in their less illicit, everyday subjects. Seven long years of Severus tutoring Potions and Defence to the rest of the gang, Rodolphus going over Transfiguration and herself explaining the intricacies of Charms, whilst Avery rambled on about Herbology. Seven years of practising their hexes, jinxes and curses (especially the Unforgivables) until it came as easily as a simple levitation charm. Seven years of long talks, where they planned what they would do after leaving Hogwarts and discussed _current_ events. 

Seven years of this - same time, same place - and he still managed to be late.

Bellatrix was not surprised, however, as Severus had never taken kindly to a summons - clearly displaying his considerable displeasure by arriving thirty-five minutes later than "eight o-clock, study room." So, in the absence of her tutor, she took the time to set the scene: removing three rolls of parchment from her satchel and placing them upon the desk, flicking through her essay on (such and such a subject) without taking in a word, sharpening her quill, running a comb through her long, raven hair and adjusting the neckline of her dress. Once satisfied, she sat back in her chair and waited for Severus to arrive.

__

Why she was going to all this bother, she really did not know. With his lank, greasy, black hair and sallow skin, he was, by her standards, ugly as sin. His nose was, frankly, absolutely huge, and he was nothing more than a rack of bones - far too skinny to be healthy. 

However, it was fair to say, that Severus Snape had managed to get under her skin.

His intellect, while not hugely superior, was just that bit better enough to make hers pale in comparison. His ability to manipulate and deceive, while neither as overt as Avery's, nor as subtle as her own, was always recognised as the marginally greater. His cunning, perhaps his most considerable asset, she could match, but never get the better of. Brute strength, he was unable to call to his aid in a tight spot like Avery, but mind games were undoubtedly his forté. She had watched him reduce even the strongest of wills into absolute compliance with a growing resentment that was becoming harder and harder to hide.

She would, in all probability, have been content if Severus had been completely untouchable. For what frustrated her more than anything, what made her perfect teeth grind with fury, what made her blood boil, what made her toss and turn, sleepless, in her dormitory in the wee hours of the morning, was the notion of being "almost there." Of being "not quite." Of being second best. 

But it was more than that…

He had grown some in the past seven years. Not in a physical manner, no. It was more of a psychological change and (dare she bring herself to say it) possibly a change in spirit. For example, she noted how he no longer walked in that twitchy, awkward manner. Rather, now, he had gained a little grace of movement, flitting fluidly from class to class with all the soundlessness and inherent malevolence of an ancient lethifold. Also, he had somehow begun to hold himself a little differently, appearing less submissive, whilst still managing to retain his impenetrable, iron veneer. 

The rest, with the flick of her hair and a flutter of her heavy lids, their minds she could see in an instant. Severus, however, would remain in the background - staring at her impassively from the flickering shadows over yet another book from that _bloody_ armchair beside the fireplace where he sat night, after night, after night - his hollow eyes glittering with a -- a something which she _just could not read. _It was not desire, and yet it was not disgust. It was not the superior smirk and neither was it the disdainful sneer - both looks that normally twisted Severus Snape's pale, angular features. It was a look, which she had never seen before - not on anyone - and therefore, had certainly never expected to first see it in Severus Snape.

It was a while before she noticed the look again. Perhaps, it had transpired a number of times prior to her first catching an accidental glimpse of it, upon an otherwise forgettable evening, in the Common Room. But now that she had seen it, she began to notice it more and more frequently, and the more she perceived it, the more frustrated and puzzled she became, until she found herself unable to sleep at night, her thoughts wandering increasingly to the strange, cold and elusive Severus Snape - even though she had recently accepted the long-awaited proposal of Rodolphus Lestrange (to the lasting grief of his brother). 

What was that look? What was it about Severus that unnerved her so? Why could she suddenly desire obsessively, the one thing that made her so incredibly furious, the one thing that intrigued her to the point of obsession?

__

He was completely different from Rodolphus -- from any of them, in fact. He was always so aloof, so silent, so cold, so calculating, so deliberately self-controlled, and so careful not to let slip the chilly façade. Yet on a rare occasion, he could kindle that ice into a flame so intense, that it would sear and scorch anyone unfortunate enough to incur its wrath. 

All he had done was managed to irk her, like an itch underneath the skin, which you just could not alleviate - no matter how long or how hard you scratched - and she could scratch and scratch until she bled, but she knew then that she would never be clean of him unless she did something about it. She knew that, as it was, he was just beyond her reach. So, naturally, she was going to do everything in her power to overcome that particular obstacle.

__

… she was going to scratch that itch.

The sound of the heavy, oak door of the study room creaking open snatched her from her reverie and then the soft, low, clear voice of the object of her unwilling fascination filtered through her into thoughts. She felt the familiar rush of hatred that accompanied such encounters with Severus, causing the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and her fists curl and turned just in time to see Severus Snape leaning against the doorway, his sallow face smirking slightly.

"Daydreaming, Bella?" 

"You wish, Severus," she retorted, scathingly.

__

"Let's get this over with," Severus continued in that maddeningly cool tone, ignoring her, as he began to rummage around in his backpack for a quill. "I really do not wish to be detained any longer than is strictly necessary…"

__

Arrogant bastard…

"Then, _Severus_," Bellatrix whispered icily, her dark eyes flashing, "if you do not wish to be detained any longer than is _strictly necessary_, I _suggest_ you do not turn up for your engagements thirty-five minutes late," she finished, viciously.

Severus halted abruptly, and looked coldly up from the shadowy depths of his backpack - staring unabashed, into the smouldering eyes of the scornful young woman before him. 

There was a brief, but pregnant pause. After a few seconds, Severus broke the silence, and began to whisper, his tone sickly sweet and dangerously low.

"I feel you may be labouring under the delusion that I am going to stay for the full hour," he said silkily. "Then, I apologise, my dear Bella, but I do not plan to stay a _minute_ longer than what we originally agreed. I leave at nine o'clock - no earlier, no later. I happen to be thirty-five minutes late. Why I am so, is _none_ of your concern. This leaves me twenty-five minutes in which to correct this _abysmal_ effort," he said, waving her potions essay in one thin, blue-veined hand, "and also leaves you twenty-five minutes to shut your mouth and let me get on with it."

With that, Severus's head snapped downward and he began reading casually, as if nothing had happened, occasionally scribbling upon the parchment with his fine, rook-feather quill.

__

Porcelain features twisted into a vicious sneer, she sat back and watched him in silence, her dark eyes aflame with hatred and admiration. She was going to have him. Even if it took weeks, months, years - she was going to have him. She would break through his iron veneer and eventually, he would be begging and pleading and _screaming_ for more just like all the rest. 

No matter how long it took, she would triumph over Severus Snape…

…_and then nothing could stop her._

When the twenty-five minutes was up, Severus tossed her essay across the table. There seemed to be a lot of scoring out. 

"I'm sure that will keep you occupied until tomorrow," Severus said, gathering up his things and stuffing them in his backpack. Pushing his chair under the desk, he swung his bag over his shoulder and prepared to leave.

__

Oh no you don't…

"Yes, I'm sure it will. Thank you, Severus," she replied sweetly, gathering her belongings speedily, rising from her seat and moving a little too swiftly around the table to stop directly in front of Severus, preventing him from moving any further.

Arching a thin, delicate eyebrow, he halted abruptly, and stared coldly down his nose at her with a look that said simply: "you are in my way." 

__

Here we go… 

"Severus, do you mind at all if I come with you?" she sighed, running a hand through her sleek, shining hair. "I really don't want to stay here until two in the morning working on this bloody essay and then have to dodge old Pringle on his rounds."

His response was a small laugh and a shrug of the shoulders.

"It really doesn't bother me whether you do or don't, Bella," he replied, disinterestedly, by way of saying yes.

__

Yes, that's it…

"Thanks, Severus," she said happily, perking up suddenly, "I know a shortcut. We can go that way and be back in the Common Room in five minutes." 

"Why don't we just go the normal way?" Severus asked, his pale brow furrowing.

"Because _my _way," she began irritably before remembering herself and starting again, "because… because my way is quicker. I've used it loads of times," she finished, smiling.

Severus shrugged his consent once more, and the two young Slytherins left their study room, Bellatrix leading the way by casually slipping her arm through her friend's and Severus - showing no active resistance - was lead off down the corridor in the opposite direction of the Common Room.

***

The room that Bellatrix had chosen was certainly deserted and looked as though it had been so for quite a long time. It did not even have the usual clutter of empty classrooms - desks, chairs, old blackboards and such. The room must also have been very old, as it seemed to be constructed solely with a smooth, polished stone. The floor, which was coated with a thin film of dust was made of stone, the shadowy ceiling high above and also the huge pillars which rose up into the lofty rafters, where they joined their partners in making arches that ran all the way down the room - creating a long, grand corridor of which the end was obscured in shadow. It seemed to call to her. She liked it very much. It was pretty, in a melancholy sort of way. Unfortunately, Severus did not seem to share her opinions…

__

"Bella, where in the name of Merlin are we and why the hell have you brought me here?" Severus hissed, whirling round to face her, dust billowing under his feet.

Her mind in a state of delirious pleasure, Bellatrix noted how his sallow cheeks were flushed with anger, how his black eyes seemed to smoulder with fury, and how his thin strands of jet-black hair were streaked wildly over his pale face.

"Why, Severus," she simpered mockingly, twisting a strand of curly hair around her finger, "do I detect a hint of anger?"

__

Look at his cheeks - they're red! Red, red, red, red, red…

She could contain herself no longer, and let out a scream of laughter. She laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed until the tears came. Then she dropped to the floor and laughed some more. Severus didn't seem to find it funny, but she didn't care. She could hear his voice, screaming over and over again for her to shut up, but she couldn't, for it was so incredibly funny.

__

"Shut up, you stupid cow! I said SHUT UP!!! What the hell is wrong with you-- Get up from the floor, Bella, you're making yourself filthy-- GET UP!!! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?"

__

"Look at you now!" she shrieked, laughing, as she grabbed his collar. Pulling him downward with a madly flailing hand, she straddled the furious, struggling Severus and pinned him to the cool, stone floor. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly andshe felt that her teeth would melt together if she did not stop grinning._ "Smooth Sevvie all dishevelled and worn! Now I'm the one driving you mad, Severus! Oh yes… Mad, mad, mad as a mad march hare!"_

"What are you talking about, Bella?" Severus asked, incredulously, ceasing to struggle and instead stared up at her, his hollow eyes glittering strangely. At once, Bellatrix's rictus grin faded, and she felt the familiar anger rising, filling her with a liquid fire.

__

Oh no… don't you dare look at me like that…

"Shut up!" she snarled, venomously, leaning right into her captive's sallow, angular face, her eyes dancing madly. _"I am the one in control! I alone! Me! Now it's your turn to shut your mouth and let me get on with it, and, oh yes, I'm not completely thick you know, for I do understand your reaction. Best save your dignity, my dearest Severus, for you will be screaming for more before the end…"_

Then, with lightening reflexes, she wrenched Severus Snape's head up from the dusty, stone floor toward her own and her lips met his in a rough, firey kiss. To her satisfaction, Severus reciprocated, and without warning, she felt his cold, thin hands flying over her slight figure, running feverishly through her hair and over her delicate face. She moaned appreciatively as Severus began to kiss her deeply, sliding under her robes, moving lower and lower and lower, when suddenly, she felt Severus lurch underneath her, forcing her upward. She tried to counter it, but the move was so unexpected, that she stumbled against a pillar and felt Severus pushing against her, and the cold, sharp point of a wand - her - wand, pressing unyieldingly into her neck. 

"Move, Bella," she heard him say smoothly, his black eyes cold and merciless, "and you will be crawling on all fours back to the Common Room."

Knowing how Severus usually made good of his threats, she stopped dead, feeling the pressure lift as Severus took several steps backward, the wand now hovering over her heart. 

"Don't think I didn't appreciate it, though," he said, with a hint of amusement. "Very flattering, I thank you. However, I'm afraid I don't think I'd take my chances with you." he went on, slowly pacing backward to the door, whilst keeping his eyes locked on Bellatrix, how was now shaking, not with fear, but with fury. "Right now, you're just too risky…"

Severus had now reached the door with the wand still pointing at the vulnerable Bellatrix, and he opened it swiftly, without averting his gaze, and stepped through it quickly and silently. Leaning around the doorframe, he smirked and added snidely: "…besides with your reputation, I'm afraid I might catch something." With that, he tossed her wand back at her - which landed at her feet with a clatter - and slammed the door closed, shutting out the light. 

The room dissolved into darkness. Quaking with ire, she slowly slid down the pillar, and collapsed into a heap - wringing her hands and tears of frustration running down her cheeks. She had had him and now due to her rashness and assumption, she had lost him. 

What was more, he had made her look like an idiot… 

__

…like a whore and a desperate, little fool…

She sat there for a long time, for she knew that she could not go back to the Common Room that night, not if he was there, smirking all over his face. Clouds drifted, and a pale moonlight began to filter through the tall, but filthy windows. She did not notice it, however, until it chanced to reflect off of a smooth, cold surface, causing a shiver of white light to dance on the wall in front of her red-rimmed eyes. Bewildered, she turned and looked behind her, for she had not seen anything in the room when she had first entered (then again, she hadn't paid much attention to her surroundings) and her dark eyes settled on a huge, glittering, golden mirror. 

For a moment, she stayed perfectly still, gazing coldly at the sparkling surface of the glass and then suddenly, with a howl of frustration, she lunged for her satchel and, staggering toward it, hurled her satchel's contents with all her might at the mirror - a hairbrush, quills, parchment, books, ink bottles - and only stopped when she expected the ink bottle to shatter the glass, and found to her bewilderment, that it did not. The bottle, upon impact, had smashed to pieces, the ink raining down spectacularly in all directions. By all accounts, the glass should have at least had a chip in it. 

But there was nothing. Not a scratch.

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes suspiciously as she made her way closer to the mirror. 

__

It must be magical, possibly dangerous. Why else would someone put it up here out of the way? 

Halting before the grand, carved, taloned feet, she was now so close that she could see her reflection in the shimmering surface: her sleek, thick and shining, black, curly locks were tangled and wild; upon her dark, heavy lids, which fluttered over her equally dark, glittering eyes, clung small, crystalline beads from teardrops of defeat; her milky pale skin, which glowed eerily in the moonlight and her willowy frame - displaying her great (and infamous) good looks.

"What do you do, pretty mirror, that causes you to be hidden so, away up here out of harm's reach? You don't seem so dangerous…" she whispered mockingly.

Suddenly, as if to answer her question, her reflection evaporated smokily. Taking a hurried step back, she watched as tendrils of silvery mist swirled in the empty formlessness behind the surface and gasped as they began to take another shape… other _shapes, _in fact, very familiar shapes. Her thin lips broke into a truly evil smile, as she watched the two familiar shapes moving together, as one….

__

Very familiar shapes…

Now she realised why someone would not want to keep this mirror out in the open. It was not dangerous, but it had a purpose, a very practical purpose, indeed. At the moment, she was content. She could wait. If it took weeks, months or even years… she could wait. 

No matter how long it took… she could wait. 

***

Shivering a little with the cold, she was glad when she felt a thin hand rest upon her shoulder and a very familiar voice break the oppressive silence of the Forbidden Forest. 

"Bella…"

"Severus…"

Smiling slyly, before rising to her feet, she turned to greet her old friend. Raising a small, white hand to his face, she walked over to the tall, thin man cloaked, masked and hooded, and removed his mask to reveal a sallow, angular face - more lined than she had remembered and there were dark circles under his hollow eyes - but still clearly the same Severus: cold, forbidding and untouchable. 

"You must be cold."

"I am a little, if you must know…"

He laughed softly and then fell silent and still.

"You know why I'm here, Severus."

"I do," he replied simply, after a long pause.

"It ends tonight…"

Severus remained still.

"It ends tonight, Severus. All of it. I am tired of waiting…"

"… and I am tired of playing," Severus said quietly.

"Well then, let us finish this…" she said, holding out her hand.

Taking one swift step forward, he took her by the hand and drew her into the folds of his cloak, laying her down under the overhanging branches of the old yew. And there, in the ice and shadows, they made love - swiftly and silently as a passing breeze. When his seed was spent, the spell was broken. She kissed him once, they donned their robes, and there they ended it, once and for all, leaving in opposite directions without a word, as they both trudged off through the snow, masked and cloaked, into the night.

__

AN: Whoo! Boy, that was a marathon and a half - and believe me - it was more so for my poor fingers than it was for your eyes. It's about ten pages long (Microsoft word) and it took me the whole week to write. Bellatrix's intentions kept eluding my brainless grasp. 

__

On that note, I thought I'd take the liberty of explaining Bellatrix's vision in the mirror. In case you weren't really sure, Bellatrix saw herself getting it on with old Snapey. Now, for those of you who would think that being Voldemort's most beloved supporter, her standing atop a mountain of muggle skulls or her sitting at the head of the war table would be her heart's desire, just think about what all these visions have in common. Yes, that's right, the answer is power. Now, when she is seventeen (in this story) what represents power (in her eyes) is Severus Snape. Her vision is symbolic of her managing to conquer the unconquerable Severus - thus stripping him (metaphorically, you little rascals…) of his power and leaving her the victor. 

So, you would think, why the hell would Severus knowingly give in to her at the end? Remember when he says: "Right now, you're just too risky…" ? Yes, he made a little joke about it at the time, but he actually meant it (it's those mind games he's so good at, you see). When he meets Bellatrix after her release from Azkaban, he no longer considers her a threat, so he "gives in" to her to keep up appearances, resulting in Bellatrix believing she has won the game, when actually Severus is still playing (mind games again).

He's sneaky, but not evil.

Just had to make sure everyone understood that.

So… errr… thanks for reading. All reviews are welcome. Just a "bloody brilliant" will do, as long as you post it!

Thanks again!

- Ada Kensington.

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	11. Theodore Nott

What Would You See?

Chapter Eleven - Theodore Nott

AN: Sorry for the lack of updates (nine months, possibly?) I've probably lost all of my readers, here at , but I hope this goes some way to making up for it.

* * *

'That will do for now, Theodore,' Professor Snape said. His low voice drifted through the fuliginous fumes rising from his pupil's potion. 'You know that this particular potion will take at least one full moon-cycle to mature, so we will return to it a month from now to add the final ingredients before we test its effects.'

Theodore nodded. Behind Snape's desk, a dozen or so common, non-magical mice of various colours squeaked and scratched in their cages, oblivious as to their imminent and uncertain fate.

'Next week, you may try your hand at a bone re-growth solution, as you appeared to have mastered the necessary techniques,' the Potions Master continued, moving silently toward his desk and sitting down. 'Nevertheless, it is a rather complex potion, somewhat above N.E.W.T level. So I suggest you read up on its preparation technique before you return. I trust you will be able to handle it,' Snape finished, before diverting his attention to a tottering pile of parchment on his desk with a sneer. Already immersed in his marking, he picked up a rook-feather quill, dipped it into his inkwell and added as an after-thought, 'You may leave when you are ready, Theodore.'

'Yes, Professor' Theodore replied obediently, already having filled seven beakers with his painstakingly brewed Polyjuice Potion and having placed them carefully into one of Snape's dry, dark cupboards - reserved specifically for the storage of students' maturing concoctions.

Slipping on his dragon hide gloves, he scraped the remains of his ingredients into his hands and tossed them into the bin, giving the work surface a quick wipe-over with a damp cloth. Immediately after, he vanished the last remaining drops of his potion and performed a rigorous scouring charm on the insides of his cauldron to thoroughly cleanse it of any residue that could contaminate any other potions. He performed these elementary tasks with all the natural skill and ease of an up-and-coming, professional potion-brewer. And so he should have done, for that was what he secretly wanted to become.

'Potions Master would be even better…' he thought, with a slight smile_._

It was true, he mused, as he gathered up his notes and stuffed them into his bag. He wanted Professor Snape's title. He wanted just to sit, day after day, pouring over tomes and ingredients and ancient manuscripts; he wanted to earn that illustrious title; he wanted to elicit a deserved respect from those elite few who would eventually become his peers; he wanted to go through the peacefully tedious process of trial and error and trial and error until he felt what he imagined would be a sublime, exhausted elation, the result of brewing a flawless, undiscovered antidote or a solution that would revolutionise the wizarding world.

There were not many who enjoyed Professor Snape's Potions classes. Usually, the only ones who did were students of his own house. Even then, however, there were even fewer within their ranks who truly appreciated the subtle science and exact art that was potion-making. Fewer still, were those who had founded a deep and lasting respect for their House Master and tutor. In fact, Theodore was yet to discover another beside himself, as it really wasn't a very fashionable sentiment, what with the Hogwarts popularity stakes running somewhat against the sneering, Slytherin Head of House.

Theodore had always had an interest in Potions, but he supposed his real, lasting enthusiasm for the subject had been kindled as early on as his very first Potions lesson on his first day at Hogwarts. To this day, he remembered what Professor Snape had said; recalling his words as readily as if they had been spoken only yesterday…

'As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death…'

From then on, Theodore had sworn to appreciate that beauty; to harness that power; to be able to bottle fame, brew glory and finally stopper the most ultimate and most terrifying force known to man.

Potions, he had decided, was the subject for him.

In that first class, he had put his head down and had worked accurately and ceaselessly until he had got the job done, not even pausing when Snape had decided to make a positive example out of Draco in front of the whole class. Some time later, he hadn't even realised that Professor Snape had been standing behind him, watching his progress with a shrewd eye. So when Snape spoke up suddenly, Theodore had jumped, dropping one porcupine quill too many into his boil-curing potion. Before he had even had the chance to react, however, Snape had scooped it out with his ladle in one swift movement.

'No damage done,' Snape had said idly, looking down his hooked nose at Theodore. 'Though, I offer you a piece of advice. When brewing potions, you do not let anyone distract you from the task at hand. You must remain focused, alert and ready for every eventuality. Do I make myself clear?' he had added, raising one thin eyebrow.

'Perfectly clear, Sir,' Theodore had answered, embarrassed and cowed, feeling sure that he had blown his chances already.

That was why he had been so surprised to hear what had come next.

'I am expecting great things from you, Mr Nott,' Snape had said quietly.

That was before Longbottom's cauldron had erupted with a great gurgling bang, covering the hapless Gryffindor in fierce-looking boils, (the first such occurrence of many over the years) which had necessitated in the cutting short of any further conversation between himself and Professor Snape.

The conversation had never been resumed, but Theodore found himself suddenly driven to prove himself to the snide, sarcastic Potions Master and had poured all of his efforts into achieving his private ambition. Though he couldn't quite surpass Hermione Granger (that mudblood was just good at everything!) in his third year, he felt he had made enough of an impression on his Head of House as to finally justify asking him for extra Potions lessons.

The first time Theodore had went to Snape's office, Snape had looked at him as though he had gone mad and had told him in civil, but no uncertain terms, to get out of his office. The second time, Snape had been a little more accommodating and had just said 'No.' Undaunted, Theodore had approached Professor Snape's office a third time and had refused, point blank, to leave (even if Snape took one-hundred-and-fifty points from Slytherin) until he agreed to tutor him privately.

Needless to say, Snape had accepted (albeit grudgingly) and the arrangement of 'four o'clock, after classes, Thursday afternoons, once a week' had been set, and Theodore had not missed a single lesson since.

The truth was, that over the years, he found he had begun to revel in his time spent in the solitary pursuit of potion-making. The only other who would be in close proximity would most likely be Professor Snape, who would (due to his taciturn nature) offer up only the occasional word or two of guidance and leave him largely to go about his business.

It suited him perfectly.

Theodore liked being alone with his thoughts, a concept many of his fellow Slytherins seemed unable to grasp. Their subtle hints were becoming less and less subtle by the day.

He wasn't sure for how much longer he could avoid them…

Ever since he could remember, Theodore had never needed anyone. He had been brought up, more or less, having to depend on himself. It was a skill he had acquired very early on in life and quickly, too…

'So why would I need the aid of a bunch of starry-eyed, fifteen year-old Slytherins with their heads in the clouds?' he thought calmly, as he approached the entrance to the Common Room.

'Cognitio, potestas, purus,' Theodore said listlessly, as he stopped at the stone door leading to the Common Room.

Once the door had slid open, he emerged into the Slytherin Common Room. The green lamps cast an eerie pallor upon the rough, dungeon walls and a roaring fire crackled in an elaborately carved fireplace adorned with serpents and wands. Theodore craned his neck and looked around. Unfortunately, there was no sign of a seat anywhere. Every other available space had been taken. The Common Room was always pretty full just before dinner. He sighed inwardly.

I suppose I'll just have to write up my reports in the dorm…

Turning toward the stairs that led down to the boys dormitories, he had just lifted the wooden trapdoor, which creaked and groaned noisily on its hinges, when an unwelcome and familiar voice called out over the throng.

"Theodore! Over here, Theodore!"

Theodore stiffened.

They know you've heard him… You can't leave now… Such an open show of rejection without explanation would be madness…

He looked up. They were all sitting in the chairs around the fireplace, heads turned and eyes fixed expectantly upon him: Gregory and Vincent, Pansy and Millicent, Warrington and Draco, who had called on him. Slowly, he made his way over to their fireside circle, his eyes staring emotionlessly ahead, but he noted with a hint of panic that there was an empty seat by Millicent, who acknowledged him with a brusque nod.

It was clearly meant for him.

Cautiously, he took his seat and acknowledged each member of the group in turn. Draco was smiling slightly, looking pensive in the firelight, his pointed chin balanced on a pale fist.

'I'm glad you've decided to join us, Theodore,' he said. His tone was perfectly friendly enough, but his eyes betrayed a hint of warning. 'Will you be staying?'

There was a sudden hush. The others, who had begun whispering amongst themselves, fell silent as they awaited his reply. Suddenly, the only sounds were that of the fire crackling and sputtering and the faint murmurs of other Slytherins. He let it wash over him. He had to have a clear head, to be able to think, to be alert and prepared for every eventuality.

Do I have any other choice…? Yes. Yes, I do. I can hold them off… If only just for a little longer…

'As much as I would love to, Draco, I have my experiment reports to write up,' he answered quietly, meeting the other boy's gaze impassively.

'Surely it can wait?' Pansy's voice interjected. 'It's for Snape and your extra Potions tutorials, is it not?' she continued, with her head cocked to one side.

Theodore nodded.

'Then I'm sure _he'll_ understand,' she continued with a smirk, casting a significant look at Draco, who smiled superciliously.

Suddenly, Theodore felt the horrible sensation of doubt slithering its way into the pit of his stomach, coiling around his insides, making them grow cold. On the surface, it was an innocent enough exchange but his five years spent in Slytherin house had not been spent merely in the accumulation of academic awards. Draco, Pansy, all of them, knew something that he didn't.

Then play it like you know just as much as they - and don't give them a reason to doubt it…

'Yes, I'm sure he will understand,' Theodore replied, folding his arms and directing a cold stare at Pansy, who smiled and looked at Millicent. Millicent let out a soft snort of laughter.

'So you do know then?' she scoffed derisively, her angular jaw shifting sideways in scorn. 'God, your father's finally found faith in you at last, Theodore. Wonders will never cease…'

'SHUT UP!'

Whipping out his wand, fury thundering through his veins, making his temples pulse painfully, he pointed it right between Millicent Bulstrode's eyes. Millicent was no longer laughing. There was a sudden lack of background chatter, replaced by a heavy, tangible silence. It was as if everyone in the common room was holding their breath.

You fool! You've went and drawn attention to yourself… Sit down!

Taking a deep shuddering breath, with some effort Theodore mastered his wrath and sank back into his chair, glaring coldly at Millicent, who looked sullenly at the dancing flames, throbbing reds and glittering gold, in the fireplace.

'Now that you've both gotten that out of your systems,' Draco said smoothly, 'I'd like to get this meeting underway.'

The others shifted forward a little in their seats, intent upon hearing what their silver-haired, Slytherin friend had to say. Theodore knew what was coming, however. It would be all the usual discussions about the purity of wizarding blood, the lack of respect thereof, and the increase of mudbloods enrolled at Hogwarts. As long as they didn't prattle on for too long, he could sit through it easily, having sat through such conferences before at home where his father would lecture him endlessly on the value of rank and purity of blood and how lesser mortals were not to be tolerated. However, there was still something that made him feel uneasy. Pansy's words still echoed in his mind.

'I'm sure he'll_ understand…'_

What did she mean by that?

Draco's drawling voice snapped him out of his reverie and he instantly endeavoured to look interested.

'You have, doubtless, heard about the attempts of that muggle-loving, blood-traitor, Arthur Weasley to force through a piece of legislation increasing the sentence of muggle-baiting to a time in Azkaban?'

There were murmurs around the group. Even Vincent and Gregory nodded their apish heads. Theodore himself had read the article over breakfast this morning and had shook his head briefly before turning the page. It was a little over-the-top for the trivial act of muggle-baiting.

'The act is a disgrace!' Millicent added curtly, thumping her fist on the arm of her chair.

'I agree, Millicent,' Draco continued, sneering, a flush of colour appearing on his pale cheeks as he rose from his seat to stand in front of the fireplace. 'My friends, we are on the verge of a change. A change that would jeopardise the very future of the wizarding world as we know it. Today, we hear of the maltreatment of muggle-baiters for exercising that privilege which is granted upon them within the very moment of their birth. What next? The abolishment of the International Statute of Secrecy? Muggles and mudbloods and pure-blooded wizards, such as you and I, living side by side? Hogwarts opening the floodgates, extending their invitation to witless muggles in order to give them a little Kwikspell course?

There was a great shout of laughter from the group at this comment. Theodore permitted himself a small smile, as, frankly, the idea was utterly ludicrous. Draco, however, did not seem to find it as funny.

'You may laugh,' he continued darkly, at which point the sniggering ceased. 'But think on this for a moment. If this act is passed by the Ministry, what next? The number of Muggles is increasing daily. They are a pestilence! A disease! Encroaching upon our lands, tainting our bloodlines and bleeding the very life of the wizarding world dry! All the old lines will die out and the very foundation of our beloved house will rot away and will be lost forever…'

Draco paused for a moment, his eyes burning coldly with righteous indignation. There were a few murmurs of agreement. Theodore sighed, wondering vaguely how long Draco was going to go on.

'We are on the verge of a change, my friends,' Draco exclaimed, flinging his arms out wide, gesturing to his captive audience. 'There is no respect for purity of blood these days. We know this. But it does not need to be a change for the worse. Not if we take action!' Draco paused with a superior smile to let the gravity of his statement sink in. 'Not if we stand together…'

Suddenly, Theodore felt their eyes upon him, gazing intently, scrutinising him for any sign of a reaction. They were waiting. Panic clutched at his chest for a brief moment, before he pulled himself together and forced a solemn nod. It seemed to satisfy Draco, for he began to pace the square of carpet in front of the fireplace once again, resuming his speech. All eyes were upon him now and they shone with the same enthusiasm, the same passion, the same fanaticism. Little did they know what they were getting themselves into.

'We must unite under the Dark Lord, or the muggle-loving blood-traitors and mudbloods will crush us underfoot,' Draco whispered venomously, almost trembling with excitement.'

Oh don't be so melodramatic, Draco. It really doesn't become you…

Theodore sighed inwardly and stole a furtive look at his watch. Maybe he would still have time to catch dinner.

After that, you can write up your experiment reports for Professor Snape.

He smiled and nodded to himself, when he realised Gregory had been looking at him. Gregory grinned at him and he offered a cold smile in return.

Hmm… Idiot must've thought I was offering to lay down my life for the cause… Well, I am sorry, Gregory, for I'm afraid I have other plans…

'What about Dumbledore?' Warrington interrupted nervously, his eyes darting from side to side as if he were expecting the man to burst in the door with his wand blazing.

'What about the Old Fool, indeed?' Draco answered unconcernedly, tossing his head with an impudent casualness that caused a certain degree of alarm within the group.

Theodore blinked incredulously. 'Are you mad, Draco?' he hissed, his thin, sharp features thrown into relief by the shadows cast by the flickering flames. 'The Dark Lord is strong, but whilst we are at Hogwarts, he can do _nothing_.'

'Yes, and our muggle-loving headmaster is strongest - while he is at Hogwarts…' Draco said, smirking at Pansy and Millicent, who smirked back.

The hairs on the back of Theodore's neck began to stand on end. He was sure that something bad was going to happen. Involuntarily, he began to grip the arms of his chair. His breaths were quickening. His heart was racing. Unbidden, Pansy's words arose, once again, to the fore.

'_I'm sure _he'll_ understand…'_

Warrington's gruff voice seemed to be coming from a long way off. 'What do you mean, Draco?'

'I mean that we can now speak freely! We no longer have to hold our tongues for fear of discovery and for the benefit of the mudblood-loving Professors who are driving this school to rank and ruin! Our situation is already tenuous, what with the Old Fool's precious Potter and his inability to live without press attention, but now we need no longer fear reprisal..'

No… _Please, no…_

'Father had told me that we have a man on the inside, whom we may speak freely around and who is sympathetic toward the cause…'

Theodore began to feel sick. His face turned ashen pale and there was a light sheen of sweat gracing his forehead. His head began to spin. There were lots of voices, but he could no longer tell to whom they belonged. His chest felt painfully constricted. It was becoming harder to breathe…

'You're joking?'

'Seriously?'

'Professor Snape?'

There was only one thing that shone clearly in his mind amongst the confusing jumble of thoughts and emotions. He had to get out of here. Jerkily, he stood up and mumbled something incoherent that seemed to pass for an apology of sorts. As he walked straight out of the Common Room, his head held high and his eyes focusing straight ahead, he felt their eyes boring into his back. But for once in his life, he didn't care. The stone door slid open and his shoulder jarred painfully with its edge as he turned out into the corridor, causing him to spin and stumble ungainly. Continuing on down the dark, dungeon corridor, his pace quickening with every step, he waited until he was certain he was out of sight and then he broke into a run. He ran up the stairs and through the entrance hall. There were voices and laughter ringing out from the Great Hall, but he veered away from the warmth and merriment and raced up the stairs.

Classroom after classroom flashed past his unseeing eyes and his heart was thumping as loudly as the echoes of his clattering footfalls in the deserted corridors. A thousand and one thoughts were whirling through his befuddled mind, all clamouring for his attention, and he just wanted to be alone to sort them all out…

Suddenly, exhausted both physically and mentally, he wrenched a door open and threw himself upon it, slamming it shut with a bang. Numbly, he slid down it until he collapsed upon the wooden floor, whereupon he curled up, pulling his legs tightly into his body, and cried.

* * *

Pull yourself together, Theodore… It's not the end of the world…

Wiping his nose on the sleeve of his robe, Theodore sat up and looked around for the first time since entering the room half and hour ago, with watery, red-rimmed eyes. The room was quite dark, with a low ceiling, and the only things in it were a mouldy old dustsheet pooling around a huge, golden mirror with elaborately carved feet. He surveyed it from his spot at the door with great distaste and sniffed, rubbing his eyes.

At least somebody's had the sense to hide the hideous thing away…

All of a sudden, Theodore felt extremely weary. His shoulders sagged hopelessly and he dropped his head into his hands.

How could I have been such a fool…?

A hot, impotent anger pulsed through his veins, making him clench his fists. He felt stupid, used and betrayed. As silly as the latter sounded, he couldn't help but feel that he had been manipulated, right from the beginning, from the very moment he was born, and had been used to someone else's end. And it was with a sinking heart, that he realised it was true. His father, his housemates, everyone he had ever come into contact with, and now…

Don't think about that…

But it was like trying not to think of pink elephants. As soon as the thought floated innocently into his mind, it was like his whole world had turned upside down. Polyjuice Potion, Invisibility Solution, the Draught of Living Death… It all made sense now. And it hurt. All these years of quiet contentment, of aspiring to a goal he could never attain…

Shaking dark head, he smiled bitterly.

How stupid he was to have thought that he could avoid it! For ever thinking that he could fight what he would become! For believing for one moment there was someone out there he could trust implicitly and hold apart from the rest of the world! And for ever trusting them in the first place…

He stood up suddenly, taking a long, shuddering breath and running a thin hand through his black hair, a lonely pallid figure in the reflected light of the mirror before him. He stared at his reflection, berating himself inwardly for letting himself get into such a snivelling state. Suffice to say, it was obvious that he had been crying. There was no way he could go back to the Common Room looking like a homesick little first year. Drawing closer to the mirror, he decided that a Concealment Charm would be most prudent to cover up the evidence, but just as he raised his wand to perform the incantation, his reflection vanished.

Letting out a croaky yell, he whirled around, expecting to see one of his sniggering housemates. But there was no one there. Puzzled, he turned back to the mirror and what he saw almost made him break down for the second time in less than a day. He saw himself as he had always seen himself in his vision for the future: alone, standing over a steaming cauldron, deftly adding a hint of this and a dash of that, making hurried notes in his experiment reports before returning his full attention to the task at hand, completely immersed in his work but remaining focused, alert and ready for every eventuality…

There was a dull stab of pain in his chest and he found he could no longer gaze upon the mirror's image and keep his wits. Closing his eyes, he looked away, trembling a little. He knew very well what the mirror had shown him and he knew that there was no point in dwelling on it, as it would only cause him further pain and humiliation.

Composing himself, he made to leave the room when he saw his bag lying in a corner, its contents spilled out over the floor. He picked it up and with a pang, saw his meticulously written experiment notes. Carefully easing them out, he glanced at them strangely for a moment, as if only really noticing them for the first time and then pointed his wand at them and whispered 'Incendio.' At once, the edges started to curl and blacken and soon after, the pieces of parchment were consumed by a roaring red flame that flared brightly in the gloom. As the door slammed shut, the glowing embers floated gently to the ground, faded and died; a last glimmer of light lost in the dark.

* * *

'Theodore, I would like you to stay behind after class,' Snape said as he leaned over his cauldron and noted with concern his student's unusually abysmal effort at a Strengthening Solution.

The young, dark-haired boy stiffened and said nothing.

When the bell rang, he picked up his bag and walked out of the dungeon classroom with neither a word nor a backward glance. Later on, he had been summoned to Snape's office whilst he was trying to concentrate on his Arithmancy homework. He didn't go down. Shortly after, Snape himself had turned up and had screamed at him. Unable to bring himself to speak, he had stared coldly at him and had retreated to the dormitory, drawing his curtains over and refusing to speak to anyone for the rest of the night. The next day in Potions, Snape had stared at him occasionally from his desk, but left him alone.

It had been at least a month and Theodore hadn't attended a single of his extra Potions tutorials. On Thursday afternoons after class, he sat in the corner of the Common Room and immersed himself in his reading. One day, however, he felt a hand upon his shoulder and he turned around to find Draco's pale, pointed face before him.

'Do you want to come sit with us, Theodore?' he asked encouragingly, indicating the seats by the fireplace where Pansy, Vincent, Gregory, Millicent and Warrington sat, talking animatedly amongst themselves.

There were a few more faces than there had been the last time, he noted. Warning bells were ringing madly in his head, but he paid them no heed. Not this time. There was no point. Not anymore...

With that thought, he stood up and walked over with Draco to the fireside gathering. Suppressing the last traces of doubt, he took his place beside his fellow Slytherins and surrendered to the dark.

* * *

AN: Thanks to Yolanda of Sugar Quill for beta-reading! Appreciate your betas, folks, you have no idea how much they do for you! Thanks to Birgit of Sugar Quill for promoting this fic at the Review Challenge Thread (go and participate - it really is a noble cause)! Thanks also go to Llewella d'Ambre (also of Sugar Quill) for inspiring and prompting the update and the biggest thanks go to J.K. Rowling for giving us that little snippet of information on the clever, Slytherin, loner who is Theodore Nott, and sparking the imaginations of so many - especially myself.

As for this instalment of the series, the concept of it (if not its execution) has to be my favourite of any of the short stories. Professor Snape's position as Head of Slytherin house has to be one of the hardest jobs in the world, having to balance his performance on behalf of both sides, and losing students to the Dark Lord would be, I think, a common occurrence. The concept was just so sad and so disconcertingly real that I just had to write it.

If you liked what you've read, just a short 'excellent work, Ada' would be nice just to let me know that you enjoyed it, which I sincerely hope you did, as I enjoyed writing it!

Thanks for listening.

- Ada Kensington.


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